Beyond the Nights
by Word-chaser
Summary: Mike Schmidt makes some dangerous friends, and the Lost Children come to terms with the darkness inside them. Rating may change as I add more chapters.
1. Chapter 1 - Restlessness

**Chapter 1 - Restlessness**

For what had felt like the longest week of his life, Mike Schmidt had been forced to live on the streets. The experience had been sobering, if utterly scarring, and he'd vowed to himself to never again complain of his life as long as he had a roof to sleep under, and to never again allow such a fate to befall him. Forced to drop out of college when his parents had died in a car accident, the 21-year-old youth did not have much to live for; nevertheless, his dignity had now become his most prized possession, and he was willing to risk life and limb to maintain it – _literally_.

[ooo]

The flickering light of an archaic street lamp filtered through the thick dust-glazed windows of the small kitchen, dimly illuminating a grimy counter and the scattered remains of a paltry lunch. All was silent and still, as the soft velvet shadows of nightfall slowly but surely took hold of the small outskirts flat. Hours passed; suddenly, the grating sound of an old-school alarm clock rang across the apartment, causing octogenarian neighbors to grumble in their light sleep. Mike woke up with a start, nearly falling out of his bed, and felt his way around the bare hardwood floor as he tried to find and silence the offending device. Eventually the jarring noise died down of its own accord, though not before stealing any last shreds of hope the young man may have had of getting more rest (he had hid the clock under his bed for that express purpose, but the result was no less dismaying).

Stretching, he began to shamble towards the bathroom, and groaned – he really, _really_ did not want to go to work on a Saturday. He had to, of course, he needed the overtime pay if he was to be left with any money for food after he paid his bills. He couldn't even afford to be late, because the doors closed automatically at mid-night, an expenditure that the dingy establishment he was employed at did not seem fit to support. _Yet it does, _he thought darkly, _and I think I can make a good guess as to why._ Mike Schmidt worked as a night-guard at a Chuck-e-Cheese style pizzeria, watching the camera feeds on a high-tech tablet from the safety of his bunker-like security office, which had magnetically locked iron bulkheads for doors – in itself seemingly innocuous enough of a job description, except that (anecdotally at least) this sort of profession did not normally involve being hunted by murderous, revanchist machines. To make matters worse, the building ran on a limited power supply for the duration of his shift, and the security office doors opened automatically when it ran out – ironically, to stop anyone from being trapped in. Freddy Fazbear's, as the place was called, was not long for this world, that he knew. Murders and mysterious happenings besmirched the past of the company; five children had been brutally killed by a madman, their bodies never found by authorities, and not long after the much-famed animatronic mascots – Freddy the Bear, Bonnie the Bunny, Chica the Chicken and a fourth, decommissioned one, Foxy the Pirate – had begun to act oddly and smell, as a former customer had eloquently put it, like the living dead. It did not take a genius to figure out that the robots were haunted, Mike reasoned, and his skepticism of the paranormal had been obliterated when he'd first seen the anthropomorphic purple hare walk off his designated spot on the stage, but that didn't explain why they seemed so determined to take it out on _him _in particular, and in the most grisly of fashions at that – according to the messages left by a previous guard, the animatronics would attempt to stuff him into a Fazbear suit if they managed to catch him.

Now, that didn't seem all that awful, Mike had thought, until he'd found out that the suits were filled with wires and crossbeams meant to give the mascots their trademark expressivity, which also had the unfortunate side effect of crushing any human being pressed inside them like a particularly fluffy iron maiden. Tonight was his sixth night on the job, and judging by the trend so far the robots would be more violent than ever before. This information alone should have deterred any sane person from ever setting foot there again, but something inside Mike had _snapped_ after his life had first taken a turn for the worst, and now he was coming back as much out of economic dependency as because, deep down, he was nearly... _addicted_, to the rush of adrenaline and the imminence of potential death. Adding to that, he was also curious – were the animatronics really possessed? Why did they hate him so much? Could he convince them to leave him be? Talking to them before-hours did not seem to have any effect whatsoever, and during the night circumstances were much too harrowing to let his guard down like that. All this, he considered as he brewed his evening coffee (cheapest brand, only fit to keep him awake and murder his taste-buds) and packed himself a couple of sandwiches, in the unlikely scenario that he would be allowed enough of a respite to eat them. _Well, hope springs eternal,_ he thought, and with that began his nightly hike to his workplace.

1:45 AM, and the metal psychos were already out and about. Mike glided his office chair to the door controls, shutting the bulkhead in Bonnie's face as the robot reached menacingly towards him. The rabbit's head twitched violently, as if gripped by a seizure, baring the hidden jaws of its endoskeleton at the camera before leaving. The young man pooh-poohed at the sight with practiced indifference, and went on to check Pirate Cove – Foxy's usual dwelling place. The curtains of his abandoned stage were already parted, the mechanic fox glaring at the camera with burning yellow eyes that – Mike felt – had no place on a supposedly lifeless object.  
"You're gonna try and rush me down, aren't you," he mused to himself. "Well, knock yourself out. I can hear you coming a mile away, I don't even need to stare at your ugly mug."

No time for idle chatter, though, already the right-hand door was assaulted by Chica. Mike moved to close the door on her, and had to scoot back the other way to shut Bonnie out, who had returned in the hallway with a garbled, static-filled screech.

"Now, where's Freddy..."

Loud bangs from the left-hand side announced him that Foxy had replaced his purple companion, and was currently trying to punch his way through five inches of solid steel.

"Good luck with that, buddy."

After a quick scan through the rest of the cameras, his by now trained eyes managed to discern the two pinpricks of light that marked Freddy's presence in the dining hall. The bear could be surprisingly stealthy, and Mike had an inkling that he was learning to adapt to the night-guard's technique. He prepared to switch cameras again, moving to check that the hallways were clear before opening the doors to his office to conserve power, when something unusual caught his attention on the poorly lit screen. Something he'd never seen happen before...

[ooo]

Familiar rage, primal and senseless, overloaded his circuits, causing his head to glitch wildly through different default positions. He could feel _his_ presence in there, his still living pulse, taunting him. If only he could break that door down, or smash in that window... But, of course, his programming forbade him from damaging company property. The unfairness of it all was driving him mad, inching him off the precarious perch of sanity...

_"IT'S ME."_

Bonnie gathered his scattered thoughts, and set off down the hallway. The sheer absurdity of the rules he was forced to play by still frustrated him, sure, but if he continued to linger the person inside the office would never open that door again. Besides, he reminded himself, they weren't out to kill him this time. Not just yet. They needed to see his face, to make sure...  
If only he could remember things better.

Back in the dining hall, and Bonnie quickly realized he wasn't the only one having trouble reigning his temper in. Blending in seamlessly with the shadows around him, Freddy was looking up at the active camera with vacant, dimly glowing eyes. His gaze then lowered itself, focusing on the brick wall that separated them from their target. For a moment, the rabbit remembered their unspoken agreement not to interact when they were out hunting, but pushed aside his misgivings when he saw the animatronic draw back, readying for a charge. He walked over with large, striding steps, and placed a hand on his friend's brown-furred shoulder.

_"Freddy, don't."_

The bear ignored him, shrugging out of his grasp.

_"Freddy, seriously, don't." _Bonnie watched him take a step to the side, then begin to walk forward, picking up speed as he went. "_I barely managed to fix you the last time,"_ he called out after him.

The ursine robot finally stopped in his tracks, turning to face him as he continued to speak at an urgent pace: "_Look, I know you think you're responsible for what happened, but this is __not__ what he would've wanted. For that matter, none of us want to see you get hurt." _The rabbit relaxed, seeing the unhealthy determination ebb away from cerulean eyes. He flexed his fingers with pale, wistful sadness, hearing the small motors click and whirr as he did so. "_These hands aren't really meant to hold a screwdriver." _He looked up, returning to his usual jovial self. "_And I doubt the wall's gotten any softer with time."_

_"Alright, yes, so I've gathered," _the bear responded, amused. "_Incidentally," _he continued, pointing at the still active camera trained upon them, "_you do realize he just witnessed our little sideshow, don't you?"  
_

The purple animatronic shrugged his shoulders dismissively. "_Eh, more power to him. I don't really see how it'll make that much of a difference in the long run, not if things go as planned."_

Freddy let out the mental equivalent of a sigh. "_If we still had working voice-boxes..."_

_"I tried, Freddy, I really tried,"_ Bonnie lamented, "_but all the electronics I know come from an atlas I read when I was ten, and it said nothing about fixing speakers in there; I think I'd need a soldering gun anyway, for the wiring, and they don't leave that sort of stuff just lying about in a pizzeria. Besides, what would we even say to him? 'Come on out, so we can decide whether or not we want to tear you apart?'"_

_"Iiit's... not very convincing, is it?"_ he admitted. "_Okay, fair point. Guess we'll just... keep trying, then."_

_"Uh-huh. Actually,"_ the rabbit pondered out loud, "_I think I'll set things up so Goldy can get to him? I don't think he's seen her in action yet, and to be honest I'm growing a bit too... unstable, for active duty."_

_"Good idea. No need to risk a repeat of last time."_

_"...yeah..."_

_"Oh, come on now, you know I didn't mean it like that. We've all had... slip-ups."_

_"That cost other people's lives? Heck of a price to pay for my own damn mistakes."_

_"Which is why I'm making an executive decision here, and telling you to go rest. Play a song or something, if it helps you get your mind off of things. Oh, and Bonnie? I'm supposed to be the leader around here. If anyone's to blame for those incidents, then it's me."_

With that, the two robots parted ways, one going towards the west hall, the other for the back-stage. New guard or old foe, the last week had been an interesting one nonetheless; and Freddy felt, for reasons he himself could not quite explain, that it was only going to get more interesting from now on.

**_A/N: Finally remembered to give this thing a proper Author's Note. But hey, next chapter should be up in about a minute! Now, about the story. Basically, I'm hoping to keep this thing mostly canon up to Mike's seventh night, which as you all undoubtedly know is neither the end nor anywhere near the beginning of things. The one big difference is that the children that were murdered in this story were a mite bit older than their canon counterparts, and thus have managed to better hang on to their sanity. That's about all that there is to say for now - I don't intend to ramble here over-much, so I'll leave you with a few verses instead (also by yours truly). Enjoy:_**

**_"Dark thoughts race inside me  
I feel I'm becoming that which I hunt;  
Memory has betrayed me,  
How many innocent lives did I hurt?  
I am afraid  
But I haven't changed  
It's still me,  
It's still me,  
It's me!"_**


	2. Chapter 2 - Constant Peril

**Chapter 2 - Constant peril**

Against all expectations, the animatronics did not succeed in capturing their quarry on the sixth night, nor for an entire week after that. The left-side door sported a few new dents and gashes as testament to Foxy's persistence, but his programming prevented even him from doing any real damage; on top of that, the night guard obstinately refused to check cam 2B, having grown into a routine of flicking the video feed between Pirate Cove and wherever Freddy happened to be at the moment. Despite his friend's warnings, the bear was becoming more and more tempted to simply smash his way into the office through the dining hall wall – it must have been the same person in there, because no newbie would have kept them out this efficiently, not when they were already in full hunting swing. This, of course, only cemented his conviction that their killer had finally returned to face justice, and as the nights trickled on he found it increasingly hard to hold on to any sense of identity. Why was he here? Why did he keep coming back? Was he laughing at them, even now, mocking their crazed efforts to get well-earned revenge? Freddy wanted to break, to maim, to kill, to-

"_IT'S ME."_

He shook himself, regaining his grasp on reality. He was the leader, he couldn't afford to get carried away like that. He'd failed the others one too many times as it was. Especially... _him_...

He couldn't let this guard get away, certainly; in the case of their murder, he was the prime suspect right now. At the same time, Freddy couldn't allow himself, or the others, to succumb to their blood-lust. If their target turned out to be innocent... The thought was unacceptable. They weren't murderers.

...were they?

[ooo]

After his fourth night on the job, when the animatronic bear finally joined the party, Mike had thought the robots would no longer hold any fear for him. He'd been wrong.

"They can think, they can communicate, they... _why me?_ What on Earth have _I_ ever done to them?"

This, he asked himself for the thousandth time, as he quickly performed his routine. Left light – right light – Cove – stage.

"Maybe I'm being paranoid. Maybe they don't actually want to kill me."

Right light – left light - _"Bonnie, out!"_ \- show stage – Cove.

"Nope. No, they definitely want to kill me."

Loud bangs from the still-closed left door – _that's Foxy out for a while._

"Just me? Or did they kill all the night-guards before me too?"

Right light – left light - _"Freddy, where are you?"_ \- west hall – Cove.

"Management isn't telling anything. Can't say I blame them. But, why?"

As usual, the answer failed to present itself on a silver platter, leaving Mike to continue his frantic rote. If he'd thought the slow, ponderous motions the animatronics usually exhibited were excessively creepy, it was nothing compared to what he'd seen that night on the dining hall camera. The way Bonnie had moved... jerkily, yes, but freakishly fast, like something out of a horror movie. He shuddered in involuntary remembrance, and forcibly pushed his thoughts and questions aside to focus on his survival. There would be a time for spelunking, but later. Right now, he had to make sure there would even be a "later" at all.

[ooo]

Foxy knew that killing people was bad. He knew that the others had been devastated to realize their gruesome mistake, what their unchecked fury had pushed them to do, and he, of course, shared the sentiment. He was after the new night-guard for the same reason as everyone else, for the chance to finally put an end to their quest for revenge; he certainly wasn't doing it because he _liked_ it. So what if he had certain... _urges_? Urges that disgusted him, made him sick with himself? So what if, even as the others had been horrified, he still enjoyed the crunch of a breaking skull, or the fine spray of blood as his hook sliced an artery? He was different from _him_. Even if, in a sick, twisted way, he enjoyed it, he had never taken an innocent life... on purpose, at least.

…

Foxy knew that he was a monster. But, even if he couldn't be changed, he could at least help the others find peace. He owed them as much. For a moment, his yellow gaze flickered to the sign in front of his Cove.

_IT'S ME._

He'd written the words to remind himself who he was, a mantra that they all had adopted to carry them through the darkness of their endless night. He mentally sighed. It wasn't really doing its job at the moment. His eyes returned to the camera, momentarily switched off. Monster or not, he still had a mission to carry out – for his friends...

Thus sufficiently emboldened, he charged down the hallway. It was no small amount of fortune that Mike had left the door closed from his earlier meeting with Bonnie, and no great surprise that the sound of metal violently pounding on metal scared him half to death.

[ooo]

Silence. Silvery moonlight streamed from high, narrow windows and onto soot-blackened tables still stained with sauce and powdered with flour from yesterday's orders. Then, a loud clang, followed by heavy footsteps – Chica had entered the kitchen, shoulders slouched and half-lidded robotic eyes looking about in disinterest. She wasn't in the mood to mess with the guard for tonight, and one could only stare at a closed door for so long before it became boring. She wanted to get vengeance as much as the others, to be sure, but she had no compulsion to go chasing it if she didn't feel up for the task. The others, they got... _odd_, when the night drew on and the shadows started invading their minds. Chica had felt it too, the pull towards senseless violence, but she had long since dismissed it as an undead thing and ignored it. And though she never said anything, it still broke her heart to watch her friends slowly wither away into beasts, hollowed out by their quest for justice of no avail. Even Goldy – it happened rarely, but when she snapped, people dropped dead... _or worse._ Didn't they realize this all wasn't worth it?

No, she suddenly understood, they did not. They didn't see their resurrection as a second chance, like she did; for them, their new lives were just a means to an end, and that scared her.

"_Chica?"_

The quiet, wheezing whisper startled her from her musings, and as she spun round she was met with a sight that seemed ripped from the depths of a nightmare: a limp, rotting golden Freddy suit stared up at her with dark, empty sockets, its mouth twisted into a ghastly gape.

She smiled inwardly, seeing nothing disturbing about her best friend's appearance. _"Hey, speak of the devil! How've you been? Haven't really seen you around for these past few nights."_

"_He he, yeah. I've been hanging around that poster in the west hall, for the most part – though, I guess you wouldn't have seen me. Bonnie said we were trying to get to a new guard...? But it doesn't seem to be working."_

The animatronic chicken frowned slightly, noting how distorted Goldy's voice had become. _"That's cool and all, but don't push yourself, 'kay? You sound tired."_

"_I'll be careful," _the apparition assured. Then, even more quietly than before: _"Hey, Chica? Could you check on the others for me, please? They seem rather upset."_

"_Will do. Uh, see you around, I guess?"_

For a brief moment, the mascot's mouth appeared to quirk up in a smile. _"Sure thing."_ The hallucination faded away into nothingness, as though it had never even been there at all.

Chica turned to leave, and was yet again surprised by a bear that had snuck up on her, this one brown and in considerably better shape appearance-wise.

"_Freddy! Just the Fazbear I wanted to see."_

"_Eh? Why is that?" _he asked, warily. The chicken was not above pulling pranks every now and again, and he had often found himself on the receiving end of her inane shenanigans.

She narrowed her eyes at him, leaning forward and taking on her most serious tone. _"Care to take a guess, Mr. Leader?" _Then, threateningly: _"I know the little secret that you've been hiding from us."_

"_Wh- what?" _he stammered. _(She- she can't have found out, there's no way...)_

"_Oh, don't play dumb with me. You never were good at bluffing, Freddy. I found out."_

"_What are you even talking about?!"_

"_That. You -" _She leaned even closer, forcing him to take a step back, punctuating her every word with a burst of audible static. Then, before Freddy could even react, she rushed forward and bopped him hard on the nose, which against all odds produced a loud honking noise. _"-are secretly a ghost-robot-trumpet!"_ she finished, laughing.

The bear grunted in annoyance, rubbing at his muzzle even though he couldn't actually feel any pain.

"_Was there any point to that? Or did you just feel like embarrassing me for no reason?"_

"_Yeah, as a matter of fact," _the avian robot responded, her seriousness this time genuine. _"Goldy dropped by a minute ago, and she told me you looked upset. Anything that you'd want to share?"_

Freddy relaxed, even chuckled a bit. _"Is that what this is about?"_

"_You're worrying her, Freddy. Me too, for that matter."_

The bear waved her off. _"Nonsense. Look, I'm fine, see?" _To demonstrate, he pressed a finger to his nose, causing it to squeak once again.

"_If you say so.."_ she answered, unconvinced. _"So hey, where's Bonnie?"_

"_Backstage. Why?"_

"_Gonna have a word with him, too."_

"_I... see." _Freddy watched her leave, then shook is head slowly. She had good intentions, and he cared about her a lot... but she really didn't understand, not like him. They needed revenge. _Lived_ for it.

[ooo]

Chica found Bonnie staring at the camera with wide, hollow eyes, his head twitching occasionally as his broken voice-box let out a low, steady growl. Struggling to stay out of view of the surveillance device, she called out to him. _"Hey, big guy, d'you have a moment?"_

It took unnaturally long for him to respond, but when he did, his eyes had reverted to their usual crimson hue and the growl had died out. "_Wassup, sis?" _he called back, barely stopping himself from waving at her as well. "_Uh, I mean, not that I'm not glad for the chatter or anything, but can it wait for a bit? This thing is still on."_

"_A quick word?"_ she pleaded, making her best impression of a puppy at him (which, given the limitations of her robotic body, consisted of ducking her head down and looking up blandly).

The rabbit glanced at the camera, nodding in relief when he saw its security light turning off.

"_What happened? Did you set fire to the kitchen? ...again?"_

The chicken rolled her eyes, but did not rise to it. _"I just wanted to check up on you, make sure you're alright."_

"_...did Goldy send you?"_

"_What if she did?"_

Bonnie looked down, and shrugged. _"Look, I'm __fine__, okay? There's no need to fuss."_

"_Whatever you say, o brother o'mine. I'll just assume your spastic head-spazzing is your new theme-dance."_

"_Uh-huh. It's called 'really none of your business, baby-sis'. Just... let it be, will you? You don't need to worry about me, and neither does Goldy. All I need is a little alone time, okay?"_

Chica still had her doubts, but decided to let the matter drop for the moment. She wanted to talk to Foxy as well, but he was being his usual grumpy self and hiding away in his Cove – it annoyed her, but she knew better than to press the issue. As she crossed the dining hall on her way back to the kitchen, she spared a brief glance to the faint light at the end of the eastern hallway, where the night-guard was hiding behind his bulkhead doors. It was tempting to pay him a visit, if nothing else then because he was ultimately the source of all her friends' woe, but she doubted she'd have any more success than on previous nights. Still...

She waited until the camera was offline before dashing; her body jerked forward, and she cleared the distance to the security office in a couple of bounds, only to find the metal door predictably closed. She peered in through the window, not even bothering to try smashing it, and squinted her eyes at the person inside. Even from this distance, his face was indistinguishable to her from that of any other security guard. It really did make them all look the same, and she involuntarily shuddered as the purple-clad figure shooed her off apathetically.

"_Whatever, weirdo. We'll get you someday."_

[ooo]

Mike was beginning to panic. Left light – right light - _"No time, Chica, shoo," _\- stage – Pirate Cove – east hall – west hall...

"Where the hell are you, Freddy?" The bear seemed to have dropped off the face of the world. The only place he could've been at was the kitchen, since the camera there was broken, but the audio feed was dead-silent. Wait, did Freddy even make any noise when he was in the kitchen? Or was that always just Chica? Without thinking, his finger slipped on the tablet, changing the feed – Cam 2B.

"Wait a second, wasn't that poster- "

Mike put the camera down, intending to check the door-lights, and his senses were assaulted by the stench of mold and... something else, rancid, that made his eyes water and bile rise up in his throat. Before him, partially hidden in shadow, was the slumped form of a golden Freddy suit. Frozen in place, the night-guard felt shivers of terror run up his spine as his gaze was sucked away into the black abyss of the suit's empty sockets. Suddenly, his head jerked back with tremendous force, hitting the back of his chair; his eyes rolled over, showing their whites, and he fell to the ground, unconscious.

_**A/N: DUN - DUN - DUN! Yeah, sorry to leave you on a cliffhanger like this, except there wasn't really any better place to break up the chapter, and it was getting a bit on the long side. On a side note, I still don't understand this site's formatting thingumbob. Oh well, whatever. So hey, until next chapter!**_

_**"I have forgotten what it's like  
To hold the hand of someone dear  
Throughout our endless undead plight,  
Kind whispers never assuaged my fears.  
I am afraid  
But I haven't changed  
It's still me,  
It's still me,  
IT'S ME!"**_


	3. Chapter 3 - Proper introductions, part 1

**Chapter 3 - Proper introductions, part 1**

_[Somewhere else, another time]  
_

"Scrapping everything? Isn't that's a little- "_  
_

"_Basil, it bit a guy's head off!_ I think you're underestimating the depth of the legal cesspool we are in right now. What if – what if it bit a kid, eh? Do you even realize how _dead_ we would be if that happened?"

"Nick, just, shut up. Okay? Our defense is entirely flawless. The man had a record."

"_For petty theft!"_

"Even so. The contract clearly states, 'any and all past activities that are held on criminal record, whether convicted or exonerated on basis of lack of evidence, must be declared. Accidents resulting from a failure to comply to this measure, including but not limited to injury and/or death, are not the responsibility of the Company.'"

"See, you say that, but the media's out for blood. The bots were supposed to alert staff if they spotted someone suspicious, not fuckin' lobotomize the poor sap. Heads _will_ roll for this, mark my words!"

"Then just scrap the new ones. After all, they're the ones with the glitch, right? Throw _them_ under the bus, repair the old ones, and open up somewhere else. That should shut the media up rather nicely. We'll just bide our time, and no-one will be any wiser. Understood?"

"...yeah."

_[Present day, Freddy Fazbear's Family Pizzeria]_

The dull thud of the night-guard's body sprawling onto the floor was not lost to the denizens of the blacked-out restaurant. One by one, the possessed animatronics made their way to the wide-open doors of the security office, their heavy footfall echoing across the desolate darkness of the dreary grey corridors and causing small flecks of colorless plaster to gently fall off the crumbling walls. The unworldly light of their optics briefly met as they arrived at their destination – Chica and Freddy on the right-hand side, Foxy and Bonnie on the left-hand side – and, for a moment, the only sound that could be heard was the dying breath of the Lost Children, forever trapped within their metal shells. Then, without further delay, Freddy stepped forth and reached down, effortlessly picking Mike's unmoving body up by the hand and bringing him close to his face for inspection. His cerulean eyes moved from side to side as they scanned the young man's features, looking for any familiar detail, any possible sign.

The bear sighed, and the tension broke.

"_We've been had,"_ he announced, unceremoniously dropping the prone night-guard back onto the threadbare carpet. _"This isn't him either."_

"_Sooo..."_ Chica looked from their quarry, who they now knew to be innocent, to Goldy, who was still slumped against the aged iron desk, to her other friends. _"What now?"_

__The silence stretched on, awkwardly. Finally, Foxy spoke up, his gaze turned to the off-white ceiling.

"_I'm almost tempted to, you know, kill him anyway."_ When no answer was forthcoming, he felt compelled to explain himself: _"Look, I didn't say I would actually do it. But we're all thinking it."_

"_I'll admit, it would be awfully convenient,"_ Freddy responded, after an even longer pause. _"A few more nights to ourselves. Just like the good old days, eh? But, tell me one thing, Foxy. Then what?"_

The robotic fox hung his head. _"I don't know, Freddy. How should I know?"_ Then, with growing fire: _"Should I have learned? When? I was robbed of that opportunity; we all were!"_

"_Uh, guys..."_

The small, wheezing whisper went unheard by all, covered by the din of the mental chatter.

"_Not by him,"_ the brown bear answered firmly, pointing to the silhouette on the floor. _"He is innocent, and if we hurt him, we're no better than-"_

"_Guys!"_

The animatronics froze in their spots, suddenly becoming cognizant to the object of Goldy's warnings.

[ooo]

Mike stirred, feeling his senses slowly returning to him.

"Ughhh... what hit me?"

He opened his eyes, blinking as the soft light from above hurt his sight, and screamed. The animatronics were towering over him, closer than he'd ever dared get to them, even under broad daylight; from this distance he could smell the stench of rotting flesh wafting off of them, even hear what sounded like gasping, choked breaths rolling out of their gaping mouths. Feeling his heart race at alarming speed in his chest, he scurried to the farthest corner away from the robots and whatever the... _thing_ leaning against his desk was, instinctively covering his face with his arms. Minutes passed as he cowered, his life flashing before his eyes, each second ticking by with the weight of eternity. When swift yet painful death failed to take him, he dared risk a peek: the hellish glow of robots' glares were still trained upon him, but they had not moved an inch from where they were standing.

"What are you waiting for?" he asked, beginning to feel almost indignant. "All I've ever known was bleak todays and uncertain tomorrows and I've clawed my way out of the gutter just to be your damn chew-toy; my life is the punchline to the Universe's worst joke, so if you want to end it, just end it already!"

The robots remained still as statues.

"JUST KILL ME ALREADY!" he screamed, his breath running ragged.

Nothing. Then, painfully slowly, Foxy turned his head away and shambled out of the room. Soon after, Chica followed suit; the office lights flickered, and in the time it took Mike's eyes to adjust the golden-hued Freddy mascot had disappeared. Bonnie and the regular Freddy exchanged a glance, then looked back at the night-guard in a way that seemed nearly... apologetic.

"Just... what," he asked tiredly, the energy from earlier draining from him as he shuffled into a standing position. "What do you want from me?"

The animatronic rabbit let out a soft burst of static, and pointed insistently to himself.

"...what? I don't understand."

The robot repeated the gesture, but this made things no clearer to Mike, whose mind was still trying to process the fact that he was alive. Bonnie took a step forward, causing him to flinch back, but stopped when his ursine companion grabbed his shoulder with the same, uncannily human motion that had first convinced the guard of their sapience. The purple bot backed off, rattling out a long string of distorted gibberish and pointing to himself once again – specifically, towards his throat.

"Wait..." something finally clicked for Mike, and he understood. "Wait, wait, wait. Are you telling me that your voice is broken?" The animatronic nodded, prompting him to continue. "Is _that_ why you've been trying to get into my office _all along_?!"

A pause, then Bonnie shook his head rather reluctantly.

"Okay. Okay, so... this is more complicated; I can respect that. But you aren't going to kill me?"

The robot shook his head again, this time without hesitation. Mike gave a huge sigh of relief, and tried to stand up only to realize that his legs still felt like jello.

"Alright then," he said, from the floor. "I'll just... I'll see what I can do, yeah? I'll have to talk to the manager, probably, so's I don't get fired for tampering with you or anything, but-"

He was interrupted by the 6 o'clock chime announcing the end of his shift. The two animatronics still in his office shuddered noticeably, the glow of their eyes dimming into nothingness, and with clanking, ponderous steps they began to walk back to their designated open-time spots.

"Huh," he said, at a loss for words. "What a night." Then he broke into laughter, the sort of hysterical, sobbing laugh of a man who had escaped what he'd thought to be certain death.

[ooo]

The following night, Mike returned with a small tool-box and a handful of scrolled-up photocopied diagrams that the manager had helpfully provided him with, more than glad to have the night-guard do some unpaid labor for him. _We've been using a cassette player for quite a while now,_ the balding, middle-aged man had explained, wringing his hands nervously, _but it really isn't the same – the customers can tell __it's__ not really __them__ singing. But, if you don't mind me asking,_ he had continued, _why? I mean, they... Just, why do you wanna do this?_

That had taken a bit of thought on Mike's part. Why was he going along with this? _I guess, I figured I do something nice for them, and maybe they'll do something nice for me too? Sounds silly, but, you know how it goes..._

_Yes, yes,_ the man had agreed, slightly bemused by the answer. _So, are you gonna give it a look tomorrow, or-_

_No,_ the youth interrupted, _I think I'll just take care of it tonight, if it's all right with you._ The manager had looked at him as though he was crazy, but did not voice his concerns. And so it was that Mike now found himself walking up to the show-stage, hand gripping the handle of his tool-box so hard that his knuckles turned white, mentally preparing himself for what he was about to be put through. He had arrived early, which in hindsight was something of a mistake, because he didn't dare start before the clock struck twelve – he wasn't sure how the animatronics might react if they woke up as he rifled about through their insides, but he was almost certain that the cleaning crew would have to bleach what was left of him off the suits if that happened. He wasn't particularly keen on being dismembered, so he waited patiently as time crawled on at the speed of a geriatric sea-slug, almost cheering himself when the start-of-shift jingle played and the front doors audibly clicked shut; there was no backing out now, he realized, locking eyes with the now-active robots.

"So, uh, I'm here... yeah. Who wants to go first?" he asked, lamely.

The three main mascots seemed to hold a silent conversation for a short while, servos clicking as they moved their heads to look at eachother. Then, Bonnie stepped forward and nodded at Mike, motioning for him to walk back to his office and following a few steps behind. The way the bunny moved still unnerved the night-guard, reminding him of a zombie flick he'd seen as a kid, but he said nothing as he unpacked his kit and spread the various notes and technical drawings he'd brought on the desk. Okay, first things first... He removed the plush covering from around the animatronic's chest, managing to find the hidden clasps on first try, and opened up a large panel in the metal casing that held the endoskeleton. The reek of death became stronger than ever, but Mike had come prepared and quickly pulled a wound rag around his mouth and nose to stop the smell from overpowering him. Dreading what he might find, he trained his flashlight on the darkness beyond, and was pleasantly surprised to find nothing but metal cross-beams, plastic boxes and color-coded wires within. There was a lot of grime, yes, but most of it seemed to be residues of food bits thrown at the mascots by unruly children over their many years of service. He cleaned it as best he could, still grossed out by the sheer amount of moldy, runny cheese that stuck to his hands, and soon discovered the small black box that encased the robot's speakers and amplifiers. Sure enough, a few wires had come loose, and once he checked with the conveniently labeled diagrams beside him it proved relatively easy to fix. He closed the access hatch back up, fastening the purple suit piece over the bare metal, and stepped back, dusting his hands.

"How's that?" he asked, excited despite himself to see if it worked.

A few clicks and burrs; then: "Let me see... heh, wow, you actually pulled through. Thanks." The voice was heavily synthesized, but surprisingly pleasant, auto-tuned to a soft drawl as befitting a singer. "I... suppose apologies are in order," the rabbit continued. "And perhaps an explanation, although I can't promise I'll answer all the questions that you may have. Ah, but, I don't even know your name yet?"

"Mike," the young man said, flabbergasted at the robot's fluency, "the name's Mike, er, Mike Schmidt. Pleased to meet you, I suppose."

"Same."

"Uh, and your name is...?"

The animatronic tilted his head to the side, confused. "Bonnie, of course. I'd think you'd have found out as much?"

"No, I mean..." _Were the mascots just normal bots, after all?_ "I mean, what's your real-"

Mike stopped dead, meeting the rabbit's cold glare.

Several seconds passed before Bonnie responded. "Look, don't stir up the past, okay? You're lucky I... I really, _really_ advise you not to ask my friends the same question. We'll never get our lives back, so what point is there to holding on? Just use the names that you know us by; it's who we are now, after all."

The security guard nodded, and gulped. "So, you really are..." he trailed off.

"Haunted? Yes. Congratulations, Mike Schmidt! You're talking to dead people now." 

**_A/N: Hey there! This chapter took a bit longer than the last two, mainly due to an exam and a bout of flu, but I hope it was worth the wait. I'll admit, my pace may be slowing down just the slightest bit, but the next chapter should still be up sooner than this one was; and, for the record, even if that isn't the case - unless I'm abducted by aliens and/or announce otherwise, Beyond the Nights will keep on updating until it's thoroughly done (not that we're anywhere near there yet, mind). On another note, you may notice there's no end-of-chapter lyrics for this one. That's because, as the title implies, this is only really part 1. Well, that's about all that I had to say here, I believe. Until next time, stay awesome!_**


	4. Chapter 4 - Proper introductions, part 2

_**Chapter 3 - Proper Introductions, part 2**_

_[nowhere, a time unknown]_

**What is your name, child?**

"_Jack, sir."_

**I see.** **How... fitting.**

A low, unsettling chuckle.

**And tell me, Jack, do you want revenge? Does your heart crave for justice?**

"_...yes, sir."_

**Very well then. I'm afraid that no lantern will aid you as you wander through the darkness, young Jack; I have no light to give. In its stead, I shall give you... _POWER_.**

_[Present day, Freddy Fazbear's Family Pizzeria]_

"Congratulations, Mike Schmidt! You're talking to dead people now."

This was it – confirmation, something that Mike had both hoped for and dreaded. The robots were possessed, ghosts were real. The implications were... but, no; he had to focus, here and now. He had a metal rabbit a good head taller than him to keep an eye on, and even with last night's reassurance he still didn't feel very safe in his company.

"That... Wow. That is a lot to take in," he managed, out loud.

"Uh-huh," the mascot responded, nodding in understanding. "I know what that feels like, believe me. My advice, you should try and just sorta' roll with it, you know what I mean?"

"Roll with it...?" the young man echoed back, still reeling.

"Yeah."

The two stared at eachother for a while, neither quite knowing what to say further. Then, Mike broke the silence:

"What I want to know is, why me? Had a day to sleep on it, and I realized, you guys were way too aggressive for just wanting to get your wiring fixed. Felt rather like you had this... vendetta, against me, but for the life of me I can't figure out why."

There was another pause before Bonnie answered; his expression was entirely unreadable, but at the very least he did not seem mad. "Your... _uniform,"_ he explained, gesturing vaguely towards his interlocutor. "The purple shirt, and the yellow badge – same as the guy who killed us."

"Whoa, whoa, whoa, wait a second here." Mike blanched, raising his hands in the air. "Are you telling me the murderer was a night-guard? But I thought... in the papers, it just said it was some random loon!"

"Well, they wouldn't know, would they?" Bonnie sighed, the sound coming out as a burst of static. "And it wouldn't be the first time that he's returned to the crime scene. He's come back, killed again, _while we were goddamned here._ So, you can see why we're a little bit... paranoid."

"He... returned? What does... what does that mean?"

The animatronic looked up, a hint of annoyance returning into the light of his crimson-red eyes. "Look, change the subject, okay? I'm not in the mood."

Mike nodded quickly, not wanting to test the animatronic's patience too much. "So, uh-"

"Actually," Bonnie interrupted, "there's another favor that I'd like to ask of you. If you'd be so kind...?"

"Yeah, sure, shoot."

"There's this panel, in the back of my head. Open it up, and you should find a bunch of switches, labeled one to... uh, fourteen, I think."

Mike complied without question, removing the back of the rabbit's mask and unlatching the access hatch. Inside, there were a number of circuit boards encased in black plastic boxes, a few small servomotors, a jumble of wires and what seemed to be a control panel of sorts. Also visible were the robot's eyeball-like optics, which had rather disturbingly swiveled 180 degrees in their mounts, to peer at him through the darkness.

"You see the one labeled twelve?" the mascot asked.

Mike simply nodded, the strangeness of the situation he found himself in beginning to wear off with time.

"Alright, good; I'm not really allowed to mess with my settings, and I wouldn't know what most of the other switches do anyways. But flick that one on."

"Wait, what am I-"

"It's just the facial recognition we had installed when... Yeah, anyway. It got disabled, supposedly because it malfunctioned, but it actually works fine."

"Facial recognition?"

"Yep. It's supposed to be tied to a criminal database, but it'll work for actually remembering your face just as well."

"Wait a sec here, a criminal database? And they say it malfunctioned? What-"

"Too many questions, Mike," Bonnie warned. "Anyway, you don't need to worry." He gave a sad, tinny laugh. "We may be a little messed up, but the system itself is entirely functional."

The guard accepted this explanation, even though he wasn't entirely satisfied with it, and activated the program. The old electronics began to whirr as he closed the animatronic's head back up and replaced the plush covering, stepping off to the side to give the bot room. Bonnie stood up with a slight shudder and turned his head to face the young man, lenses refocusing audibly as he scanned his features. A grid map briefly overlayed on his view, and he found he could clearly recognize the night-guard even from a distance.

"Much better," he admitted, without particular fanfare. "I... hm. I'm not very good with trusting new people, and I may have been a bit brusque with you earlier. But know that your help _is_ appreciated." He shrugged, turning to leave, but stopped momentarily in the doorway. "I'll be sending the next one your way, so stay here. Take care, mister Schmidt."

Mike watched him disappear among the thick shadows, and shook his head slowly. _Why did that have to sound so damn ominous?_

[ooo]

The night-guard had intended to check the cameras while he waited, but he'd drifted off into thought instead, losing track of time, and barely stopped himself from slamming the left door shut when the clatter of heavy metallic footfall startled him from his musings. It was odd, seeing Chica break her usual routine and appear on the opposite side of where Mike had grown accustomed to spotting her, and it served as another reminder that he was dealing with much more than just haywire programming.

The robotic chicken sat quietly as the young man got to work reconnecting stray wires and cleaning up the debris of ages, then moving on to reactivate her facial recognition system. He sat back in front of the mascot, watching warily as amethyst eyes scanned him thoroughly. Tense as he was, he yelped out in surprise when the animatronic suddenly dashed forward with inhuman speed, pulling him into a crushing hug – the avian's yellow suit was only a cover for unyielding steel, and though her archaic pressure sensors still stopped her from doing any real damage Mike could feel his bones groan in protest. It didn't help that the lingering corpse-stench immediately made him gag, either.

"I'm sorry... and thank you." Her voice was warm, and much kinder than that of her purple companion, though not lacking in robotic inflexions. "I don't know why you kept this job, but I'm glad that you did."

The guard would perhaps have been more inclined to return the sentiment, were it not for the fact that he was currently about to pass out due to lack of oxygen; as it was, all he managed was a weak gasp for breath.

"Oh!" Realizing her _slight_ miscalculation, the chicken let go of her benefactor. "Uh, sorry about that. You okay?"

Mike only nodded, massaging his ribs. _Well, that's another suspicion confirmed, at least,_ he decided. _Which is to say, that these guys are needlessly goddamned strong._

"You know," the animatronic continued, looking off in the distance, "I'm pretty sure that you're the first living human being that any of us have talked to in, oh, nearly ten years now. It feels... nice." Her gaze turned onto him once again, and there was a seriousness about her that the limited expressivity of her mechanical mask should not by rights have been able to convey. "I believe you could do a lot of good, mister Schmidt, if you wanted to; both for us, and for the rest of the world."

Putting that final tidbit aside for later analysis, he asked instead: "N- not to be standoffish or anything, but, uh, how do you know my name?"

"Well, Bonnie told me, of course," Chica answered.

_Of course,_ thought Mike.

"Not like I could _read your mind_ or anything, eh?" The chicken leaned in, completely disregarding his personal space, and smirked dangerously. "It's not like ghosts could just, perhaps, _reach into your mind_, not like I could steal all your memories, or replace them with lies, or break your brain into so many pieces that it could _never be fixed_."

Mike had shrunk back as far as the cold concrete wall behind him had allowed him to, and was beginning to seriously reconsider his life choices by now. The mascot drew back, sensing his fear, and broke into a static-filled chuckle.

"Relax, mister Schmidt, I'm just joking. If we had powers like that, we'd have used them by now." Then, realizing the way that had sounded: "Not, uh, not to drive you insane or anything. That's not what we're trying to do here. I meant, we'd have used them to, um... you know what, never mind."

The night-guard took a moment to calm himself down. "Right, right, okay. Could you please not do that again?"

Chica shrugged noncommittally. "If you say so."

"I think I've had altogether too much adrenaline for tonight as it is, but thanks all the same. Say, uh, would you mind if I asked you a couple of questions? I get that you don't like to talk personal, and I can respect that, but to be honest I'm still not entirely sure what happened last night, or why I'm even alive. I mean," he added hastily, "I'm grateful for it and all, but how come?"

"Well, uh..." the avian robot rubbed the back of her head, looking uncomfortable. "It's kind of a long story, and it has to do with how we ended up being... _this_," she explained, pointing towards herself. "We had, er, _reasons_ to believe that-"

"I know about the murderer being a night guard," Mike stopped her. "And I'm guessing you couldn't tell people apart, because your recognition system or whatever wasn't turned on. But I don't understand, what made you change your mind? I'm thankful that you decided not to kill me after all, I really am, but what happened?"

"For starters, your guess is only half-right," Chica answered. "We could still sort of see your face, even then, at least enough to realize you were innocent – we just needed to get real close for that to actually work. Hence why we were trying to get into your office to begin with."

"But..." Mike was thoroughly confused. The explanation _made sense_, sure, but he felt like something was still missing. "Is that really all there is to it?"

The animatronic bird nodded. "Yeah, pretty much. Goldy knocked you out cold, Freddy saw that you weren't our guy, you woke up and got... well, understandably scared. Still sorry about that, by the way."

Sorry was an understatement – not only had their quarry been guiltless all along, but it turned out they'd been picking on someone who'd already had a pretty tough lot in life. In a way, that made Chica feel even worse than the killings, because she'd scared the poor man on purpose. She'd been surprised to hear his voice again after that, at least until her brother had explained the situation to her, and the fact that he was willing to help them out despite everything was a kindness that she wasn't forgetting any time soon.

Meanwhile, Mike had a sudden flashback to the golden Freddy mascot's nightmarish, anguished face. "Goldy, that's the fifth vict- the fifth child, isn't it?"

"Uh-huh," she confirmed. "But, let me put your imagination to rest there: none of us want to hurt you, not really. It's just... look, you have to be a bit patient with the others, okay? It's been a long, long time and being undead gets to your head, if you know what I mean. Besides, this restaurant's a pretty spooky place to be cooped up in for a bunch of kids, immortal robotic monstrosities or otherwise."

Mike couldn't help it, he actually laughed at that. "I'm sorry, but... _you're_ scared of this place?" For a moment, all his worries melted away, replaced with good humor. "No offense, but that's like zombies being scared of the graveyard! I'm pretty sure you guys are the creepiest things around here, bar none."

"Oh, I wouldn't know," Chica retorted, in the tone of someone recounting a ghost story at a camp bonfire. "You start seeing pretty odd things, when it's late at night and no guards are around. One night, Bonnie swore up and down that his shadow started whispering things in his ear, and we've all seen these, like, glassy eyes staring at us through the windows. Sometimes, when I look in the mirror, I see this weirdly duck-like chicken robot glaring back at me!" The last part was said with trill chortle, but it didn't much help the shiver that ran down the night-guard's spine.

"Did you, uh... Did you actually see all those things? The, the shadows and eyes and whatnot."

The mascot shrugged. "I mean, yeah? But I'm pretty sure that's just because we don't exactly get out much. And also 'cause we're, you know, dead, but I'd think that's implicit."

"Y- yeah." _Another piece in the weirdness puzzle, and I still understand exactly jack shit about anything._ "Ya' know, you seem much more comfortable talking about this stuff than the rabbit was."

"Yeeeah, about that. You remember how I said none of us want to hurt you, right? We don't, but... we _might_, anyway? I- I tend to keep a clearer head than the rest of us, for the most part, but I can't claim that you won't be in any danger if you stick around us. Accidents can happen, and things... aren't always as clear, for us, as they may be for you. Sometimes your mind can, eh, play _tricks_ on you, you know what I mean? So I, uh, I wouldn't blame you, if you wanted to, well, never come back here after tonight," she finished, looking downcast. "I'd miss you, though, even if I just met you," she added quietly.

For a moment, Mike remained quiet. Then: "Nah, I think I'll be fine."

Chica looked up. "What, really? Just like that?"

"Just like that," he answered, nodding. "Don't get me wrong here, I don't particularly want to die neither. But this is the most interesting thing that's happened in my life since I had to drop out of college, and frankly, this job still ein't as bad as some of the things that I've had to do to pay bills. A word for the wise? Never, ever accept work from people who won't tell you exactly what they want you to do before-hand, and refuse to show you any proper accreditation. You'll get chased by cops and end up knee-deep in sewer."

"So, does that mean you'll keep coming?"

"Yup. But first, I got work to do, don't I? There's still three more of you metal psychos to fix up, if I'm not mistaken."

Chica grinned widely, which looked deeply unsettling with the way that her face was built. "Goldy doesn't actually have a voice-box to fix, so just two. I'll go fetch the next one. Take care, mister Schmidt!"

_Are they all gonna say that?_ Mike wondered, bemused, as he waved. For some reason, he didn't feel nearly as afraid as he had been mere minutes ago.

_**A/N: Okay, so first thing we learn today? I can't be trusted when I say I have any sort of deadlines with these things. What happened here was that school started between the time I uploaded the last chapter and now, and I'd hoped it wouldn't make that much of a difference, but obviously... I was terribly wrong. I'm very sorry for the lateness of this chapter, but as an attempt to tide you over I've also made it a fair bit longer than usual (well, that and I didn't have any convenient break points before then). Originally, a good chunk of the next chapter was supposed to be part of this one, but I guess I really didn't estimate how ginormous it was gonna' turn out. Oh well. Enough rambling for now, but I'll see you next time!**_

_**EDIT: Yeah, so as it turns out this ended up being a three-part chapter instead of the two-part that it was originally going to be; also, I utterly messed up and had the wrong lyrics here. Whoops! But hey, look on the bright side, I'm finally updating again.**_


	5. Chapter 5 - Proper introductions, part 3

_**Chapter 5 - Proper introductions, part 3**_

Dust hung in the air, dancing with the draft under the weak light of the bare bulb above. Mike watched its hypnotic patterns and swirls absently, still wondering what on earth he'd gotten himself into. Now that he was alone it was all too easy to assume that he'd just gone insane, hallucinating about ghosts and robotic animals. Except... he touched his ribs gingerly, wincing at the pain that shot through his side as he did so. _Except hallucinations don't leave bruises, as far as I know,_ he reminded himself. Lonely as he may have been, he doubted he'd imagine a metal chicken crushing him half to death with a friendly hug. He shook his head, taking a large sip of coffee and nearly spitting it back out when he realized how bitter it was – he'd run out of sugar, and hadn't had money to buy more this week. He didn't have money for a thermos either, for that matter, which was why he was drinking the lukewarm brew from a plastic bottle that gave the liquid inside a sickly greenish-brown color. He looked at it for a while, disgusted, before taking another swig. He didn't care how friendly the mascots acted, he wasn't falling asleep while they were out and about and the doors to his office were open.

As more minutes passed, Mike began to grow bored. _So far, they've shown up in the order that they became active,_ he observed, trying to keep himself occupied. _I guess that means Foxy will be up next... Shit, I hope he doesn't decide to run down the corridor like he normally does. I wonder if I could just, sort of, peek down the hall and..._

Any thought the guard might have had of leaving his office vanished when he instead heard Freddy's boisterous laugh echo throughout the deserted building, making his hair stand on end. Out of instinct, he rushed to the camera tablet to try and find the rogue animatronic, and nearly dropped the device when a polite knock on the left-side window startled him. The bear entered his office without bothering to wait for a reply though, having to duck down just to fit his massive frame through the doorway.

"Ah, uh, hello," the living youth stammered. He barely bit down on a scream as the robot picked him up by the chin, bringing him so close to his face that their noses nearly touched. Glowing cerulean eyes scanned him for what felt like an eternity, unheeding of his pained whimpers or the way that his body quivered, before the bot's features softened and he was put down with exaggerate gentleness.

"Wh- why...?" he wheezed out. His jaw still ached from the iron grip that it had been held in, and Mike felt fairly sure that it would continue to be sore for another few days. The bear crouched down, seeming apologetic, and patted his shoulder as if to reassure him.

"Uh, I guess you wanted to make sure it's still me," the guard reasoned, remembering previous conversations. "That, um, that hurt a little, but I suppose I'll be fine." Then, realizing that something was odd: "Wait a second... Why do _you_ need to get fixed? You can make noise just fine!"

The robot seemed to think for a moment, bringing a paw to his chin, then shook his head and gave what Mike presumed was an incomprehensibly garbled explanation.

"Okay, so I guess something in there is still busted. Uh, sit down, make yourself comfortable and whatnot. It'll, erm, it'll take a few minutes, so I'll just start now... er, is that fine?" Mike wanted to kick himself for it, but he couldn't help but be particularly respectful towards the bear. For his part, Freddy was mildly amused by his fearful behavior, though also the slightest bit guilty – the poor man was just trying to help, and was doing a lot more for them than they quite frankly deserved. It wasn't in his nature to be trusting, not anymore, but he had to admit to himself that his earlier reaction had perhaps been out of line. _I'll have to make it up to him somehow, later,_ he decided, watching as the night-guard busied himself fixing the faulty wiring. The bear mentally sighed; even if they'd gained a new ally as a result of last night's bold move, he was... they were no closer to finding the killer. Maybe Chica was right, maybe it was just time for him to admit defeat, and give up on this mad quest for revenge. But then... what point was there to it all?

"As I was saying," he began as soon as he felt his voice-box reconnect and reboot, "I actually have two separate sound systems in there – I'm sure you've noticed as much while you worked. Me and Foxy can play a few prerecorded sounds even if the main one is offline, but it doesn't do us much good in the way of communication."

"Makes about as much sense as anything, I suppose," Mike answered without looking up. "Now give me another minute, will you? And try to sit still, please. I'd rather not get my fingers crushed by some moving part if I could avoid it." He'd expected some sort of biting retort, but to his surprise the bot remained silent and did as he was told, almost as if he'd been scolded by a teacher at school. _Huh... well, I guess it makes sense. I mean, he is a kid too, after all. _The thought seemed so strange – there was nothing child-like about the hulking monstrosities that had haunted his nightmares for the past couple of weeks, at least not on the surface, but now that he got to meet them (which in itself would have seemed crazy just a few days ago) the evidence was undeniably there. They were just children. Undead, impossibly strong children, who had spent a little over a decade in the bodies of killer robots, but children nevertheless. _Man, that kind of makes me a bastard for snapping at him like that. Except he could probably snap me in half in return if he wanted to, so it's sorta' hard to feel sorry for it. __Although__..._ He could hardly imagine what it was like, being trapped in one place for all of eternity, your life stolen from you by some insane creep; frankly, he was starting to want the murderer dead almost as much as the animatronics.

"Mr. Schmidt?"

The deep, auto-tuned voice brought him back to reality. Right, he needed to focus. _Focus_.

"Yeah?"

"You spaced out for a second there. I just wanted to thank you for helping us out when we needed it." Mike opened his mouth to answer, but the bear stopped him. "However, as soon as you are done here, I would ask you to leave. Resign, quit your job, and stay away from his place."

The young man simply stared, flabbergasted. "...why?"

"I cannot force you to do this, you understand. But if you value your life, you will do as I tell you. I..." Freddy's tone softened, unable to keep on with the threatening facade. "I'd hate to see you get hurt. You're the first guard who so much as acknowledged who and what we are, and I don't think I could live with myself if you ended up dead because I didn't warn you away from us. We're not meant to be around living people, do you understand? It would be a stretch to even call us human at this point, anyway. So I'll ask you again: once you're finished with fixing up Foxy, just leave. Forget that we even existed, and find something better to do with your life. Can you promise me that, mister Schmidt?"

"I..."

Mike didn't necessary want to come across as contrarian, especially not against Freddy, but there was no way he'd agree to those terms – he may have been a coward, a failure even, but he'd given his word, and no power in the world would make him go back on it now. A worthwhile note to remember: when people saw Mike, all they saw was a weakling, one of those men that was born a loser, with no self-esteem; and as it was, more often than not he did nothing to alleviate those assumptions. But the hardships of life had hardened him deep within, beyond the meek outer shell, and once he'd set his mind onto something his head-strong determination had surprised many. Oh yes, to those with poor judge of character, Mike Schmidt was a man full of surprises.

"Look, I get what you mean, and I'm sorry, but- "

He didn't get to finish his sentence as Bonnie careened around the corner and into the room, nearly crashing into him. The bunny righted himself with a twitch and a jitter and raised a hand as if to wave at Freddy, but then dropped it back down by his side as he cast a sidelong glance at the guard.

"Ah, yes, you're still here, of course," he said coldly. "All the better, all the better, I was looking for you anyway."

"What's the matter?" the bear mascot asked in Mike's stead.

The change in the rabbit's tone was immediate. "Nothing we shouldn't have been expecting, really, now that I think of it. It's... well, ya' know, it might be easier if you two just come with me, to be honest." With that, he set off down the hallway, beckoning them to follow.

"Where are we going, exactly?" the young man inquired.

"Pirate Cove," the purple animatronic answered, without looking back.

[ooo]

_(hours before)_

Foxy had woken up with what could only be described as a hangover: he was groggy, mind fuzzy, and it felt like somebody had stuffed his head full of wool while he slept. Of course, he didn't really sleep anymore, did he? Not as such, no; nor could he actually get drunk, for that matter, much as he would have liked to at times. Then why was he...? The bot clutched his head, but try as he might yesterday's memories were nothing but a jumble of sharp edges and shattered images. Flickering lights... open doors... blood?

He'd killed the new night-guard. _Fuck everything._

That was the only possible explanation, he realized. Oh, his mind could be playing tricks on him again, sure, but... who was he kidding? Foxy knew himself; if he thought he killed someone, it was probably because he'd actually done so. He slumped to the ground with a groan, back against the wooden boards of his decrepit old stage, and shot a tired glare at his sign. "IT'S ME." Damn it, just for once he wished that it wasn't him! He wished he could be someone else instead, preferably someone who didn't utterly screw up every single damn second chance they were given.

The new guy was going to help them; he remembered as much. If he was right, and he'd mauled the dude while the others weren't around to stop him, then whatever was left of his friendship with the rest of the gang had just gone down the drain. They didn't trust him as it was, anyway, and if he was being honest he had to admit they were right doing so. But this? He was through, finished. They'd all been offered hope beyond hope, and he'd gone and bitten its head off. _Typical._

He began to hum to himself, looking up at the dirty grey ceiling hung with cobwebs and nameless growths. He could afford to sit around a while longer, why not? He didn't feel like getting up right now, anyway. Perhaps until one of the others decided to drop by and confront him. And if they didn't… well, eternity was a long, long time, after all. Perhaps they'd forgive him eventually.

[ooo]

With a gentle motion, the rabbit animatronic parted the purple curtains of the abandoned stage, allowing a wide streak of light to shred through the darkness beyond, illuminating the sharp, jagged features of the slumped-over fox. Slowly, with many a whirrs and clacks, Foxy leveled a sole burning optic Mike's way, causing the young man to involuntarily shrink back under the sheer intensity of that yellow gaze – for a brief moment, he was reminded with painful clarity of the warnings that the man on the phone had left for him, and of all the blood that had been shed on the very floor he was standing on. But then the robot snapped his head to the left as if to address an unseen interlocutor, even though no words came out of his broken voice-box.

"_Is that really him? I can't tell."_

"Sure is," Chica's voice answered from among the thick shadows. "Safe and sound and quite decidedly still alive."

"_...this isn't some sort of replacement goldfish trick that you're playing on me, is it now?"_ was the suspicious reply.

"First off, that wasn't even a proper sentence. Secondly, no, it absolutely is not. You oughta' recognize his voice, don't you? Say hi, Mike."

"Uh… hi?" The guard didn't really understand what was going on at the moment, but at least it seemed to be something good.

The fox mascot's only visible eye widened noticeably, as though in surprise, and he bolted upwards only to think better of it and sit back down. He shook his head slowly, seemingly giving a soundless chuckle, and beckoned Mike over. The young man (understandably) hesitated, glancing over his shoulder at Bonnie, but the animatronic ushered him forward with a quick nod: "It's alright, go. He won't hurt you." _I hope so, at least,_ the rabbit added, but only in the privacy of his mind.

As the night-guard approached, Foxy rifled through the mahogany pirate's chest sat beside him, pulling out a dusty black feathered cap which he then placed atop the man's head, to his utter befuddlement.

"_You are one lucky son of a gun, ya' know that, right, kid?"_ the bot asked, jabbing a sharp metal finger at his already sore ribs; to tell the truth, the man was probably older than him even if you counted the decade he'd spent in this literal purgatory, but he couldn't care less. _"I can't decide if you're insane, or incredibly brave, or some odd mix of both, and to be honest I don't give a rat's arse either way. You're still in one piece, and that can only mean that I'm off the hook."_

Chica snorted at the bad pun, and wagged a finger in a mock scolding gesture. "Language, Foxy. Also, he still can't hear you, numbnuts." She then turned to leave, dragging the other superfluous bots along with her. "Come on, you two; let's leave 'em to it."

"But I..." Bonnie tried to protest.

"Not now, li'l bro," the avian retorted.

With the rabbit's continued insistences that he was the older sibling fading as the small group left the Cove, Mike gingerly took Foxy's captain hat off, placing it on top of a nearby stool with reverence normally reserved only for holy relics and gifts from close relatives (when said relative was still in the house).

"I can't really work with it on," he explained, "but thanks nonetheless."

The vulpine shrugged, resuming his stare-down with the ceiling as his insides were fixed up and cleaned to some degree of acceptability.

"I'm gonna need you to move a little," the night-guard prompted once he was done. Feigning an over-dramatic huff, the fox shuffled over, and was treated to the "sight" of a brief BSOD as his aged electronics struggled to boot up the facial recognition system that had caused their toy counterparts so much trouble.

"How does that feel?" Mike asked, walking into his line of vision from the right-hand side.

The sight of the guard's purple garb nearly made Foxy lunge, but he quickly bit down on the impulse. "Like a Nintendo '64 after you put the cartridge in the wrong way," he answered instead. "But considerin' I was blind as a toaster before, that's more or less an objective improvement. I'd really lose the uniform if I were you, though, buddy; that blueberry jam look you're rocking is just so ten years ago."

"What, right now?" Mike responded, unable to keep the snark completely out of his tone.

The fox opted to lazily flip him off as reply, then pointed at the large wall-mounted clock right above the stage entrance. "'Bout five minutes left before it's lights out for us. Got any last-moment questions, mister…?"

"Schmidt," the guard introduced himself once again. "But seriously, you guys can just call me Mike."

"Alright then, Mike. Don't expect the others to let go of protocol quite so easily, but I'm willing to give you a chance."

"You are?"

"No need to be so surprised; now, I won't hesitate to hunt you down and skin you alive if you so much as think of hurting the others, but aside from that I'm trying to stick to a low-murder diet." The fox cackled, sounding not unlike a burst-fire machinegun. "Oh, never mind me. I've had a bit of a rough night tonight, and I don't know what I'm saying no more. Though by the looks of you you've had it a good deal worse."

"It's been… something else, yeah."

"Well then, stick around! It's always 'something else' when you're sailing with the Fazbear crew, let me tell you. I'd give you a tour, but..."

The six o'clock chime froze Foxy in place, half-mocking smirk still directed Mike's way. Despite himself, the young man couldn't help but smile in return. This job was probably going to kill him, he knew; but in the meanwhile, at least it would keep him alive. 

_**A/N: Well, okay, so, this took a while. It took a while and I'm really sorry about that, because back when I updated the last chapter I really did not expect to make you wait so long for this one; but then I ran head-first into a cinderbrick wall of writer's block, and having to switch from a regular computer keyboard to a laptop keyboard that I'm unfamiliar with did absolutely nothing to help it, believe me. Still, here it is, finally. I'm not entirely satisfied with how it came out (then again, when am I ever), but hopefully things will pick up the pace soon.**_

_**Oh, and also? There wasn't actually supposed to be a "Proper introductions" part 3, but then I realized I couldn't just tack this on to the next chapter because it would just turn it into a huge, unreadable mess. In other news, hey, finally moving on to another "arc" come next chapter - more of a transition, really, but I'm still excited for it. What about you?**_

_**Is this blood on my hands? What have I done?  
**__**My mind has wandered yet again;  
Inside my brain, something is wrong,  
I long to share and spread my pain.  
I am afraid  
But I haven't changed  
It's still me,  
It's still me,  
IT'S ME!**_


	6. Chapter 6 - Revelations

**Chapter 6 - Revelations**

_Nighttime. Outside, the cold midnight wind howled down deserted streets like a madman's regrets; inside, within the relative safety of the Security Office, the man behind the screen watched his soon-to-be killer: blood and oil dripping from every socket and joint, shoulders slumped in a primal stance, eyes no more than burning pinpricks of light in a sea of darkness, it seemed as though there was nothing human left within the hollow shells of these metal monsters. Thunder rolled – in the brief moment that the video feed was obscured by static, the purple rabbit had vanished from sight. Backstage? Nothing. West hall? Nothing. A quivering hand reached for the door-light button; nothing but the clicking of a malfunctioning switch._

_Somewhere, a music box began to play an ominous tune. Then, there was only pain._

Mike Schmidt woke up with a jolt, heart pounding and bedsheets clinging to his cold sweat. There was at least an hour left until he needed to get up and get going, or so the clock told him, but sleep tended to lose its allure when it meant having to contend with the goddamned nightmares his subconscious brain seemed to churn out like fresh popcorn. Cursing under his breath, back still sore from a night of crooked rest and eyes all but glued together with gunk, the young man shambled out of his bed (salvaged from a nearby dump, springs sharp as nails) and towards the kitchen, where deliverance and salvation awaited – cheap coffee.

The sound of water boiling in a dingy tin kettle inundated the small, grimy room, soon to be followed by the faint scent of low-grade caffeine; Mike drank in small sips, scalding his tongue a fair number of times and doing his best to ignore the complete lack of sugar. The cupboards were dismayingly empty, half-eaten slices of bread strewn about randomly and a packet of breakfast cereals that he didn't remember getting and smelled rather dubious; the fridge wasn't faring much better, but there still was a forgotten lump of butter tucked away in a corner, a bunch of tomatoes which on closer inspection turned out to be frozen solid and, lo and behold, an unopened carton of milk. Meal thus secured, he turned his attention to the pile of unwashed dishes on the counter, which stared back at him accusingly, and decided that ignoring the household chores was no longer an option. As he scrubbed, sleeves rolled back so they wouldn't be drenched in suds, his mind wandered back to the cavalcade of night-terrors (or day-terrors, as was the case with his nocturnal schedule) that working at Freddy's had brought about. For one thing, he probably needed a shrink, not that he could afford one; aside from that, recent revelations had made things a thousand times more confusing, if presumably also better – the animatronics were indeed haunted, and furthermore could be reasoned with. On the plus side, immediate survival was no longer such a major concern. On the downside, the big guy himself didn't want him there, and the chicken's vaguely foreboding warnings weren't making him feel any better either.

… damn it, he was risking his neck either way, wasn't he? It didn't help that he barely understood what was going on, even with all the halfhearted and/or cryptic explanations he'd gotten. The five robots were the five missing children, that was easy enough to deduce, but apparently their murderer had struck again even after they became the killing machines they were now... and also happened to be a former night-guard? That made no sense. Could the police have just omitted to mention that fact when they caught the guy? Should he… no, they'd think he was crazy. And why were the animatronics still after him that first week? That was another thing that was bugging him; it was almost as if they didn't know that-

Mike's train of thought doubled back on itself. _Holy fuck._ They didn't, they really didn't know that the killer was caught, that he'd pleaded insanity and was now institutionalized in a mental asylum for the foreseeable future. How could they have, after all? They'd been stuck in that damned pizzeria since the day that they died! That had to be it. _Had_ to be. Except...

He felt himself frown, putting the last of the plates aside and settling down to eat. There was always the possibility that the police got the wrong guy, or that there were two killers. In fact, he noted with growing distress, that theory would explain a lot of the oddness that was going on here: why the bots referred to the murderer as a night-guard when the media only reported a madman, or Bonnie's remark about the bastard returning to taunt them. Then again, the rabbit had also said that he'd killed more people, while Mike was fairly sure that the only incidents related to Freddy's were the disappearing night-guards (at this, he chuckled bitterly) and the quintuple homicide case, so he wasn't sure how much of what the mascots told him he could really trust.

He cringed, trying to sort out the mess of information inside his mind, and poured himself some more milk, accidentally spilling a few drops on the already stained bare-wood floor. There was still something that he was missing here, something big. Something that one of the robots had said…

"_I'm pretty sure that you're the first living human being that any of us have talked to in, oh, nearly ten years now."_

Mike dropped the slice of buttered bread he was holding, which predictably fell to the floor slathered-side down with a splat.

"_The first living human being that we've talked to in, oh, **nearly ten years now.**"_

The murders in the paper… they had been recent. Freddy Fazbear's Family Pizzeria _wasn't even around for a decade yet!_ His head was starting to hurt. Things were only getting more and more convoluted the further he went down this demented goddamn rabbit-hole, and he had a dark feeling he hadn't even scratched the surface of it just yet. And on top of everything else, if he was actually right and this all wasn't just his paranoia kicking in again, then it could only mean one thing: not only did he have to contend with the supernatural being a thing as a regular part of his job now, but he also had to keep an eye out for a still-loose serial killer with some kind of obsession about the restaurant. _Well then._

With calm, controlled movements, he cleaned up the mess that he'd made, donned his uniform (though he planned to change into the clothes he was bringing with him the second the manager left, following Foxy's words of advice), put on his trench-coat, and left for work. There was only one thing that a man like Mike could say, when faced with such adversity and potential threats.

_Bring it._

* * *

[ooo]

It was a deep dark outside when he began his trek to the pizzeria, old streetlamps barely casting a measly circle of glow through the encroaching gloom, air thick with the scent of winter and rattling of withered leaves. The moon was a pale silver crescent, and seemed oddly large as it hung above the sleep-addled town like a sickle's edge. What was he going to say?

… he hadn't thought that far through. _I never do_, he chided himself, as a gust of wind billowed past, stirring the leaves and cast-aside wrappers in a melancholy tango. Freddy wanted him gone, even if it was supposedly for his own protection, and though he'd made his mind about staying already it wouldn't have been so bad an idea to actually think of what he would say to the bear. Perhaps the chicken would be willing to help? Even if she did, would it matter? The ursine mascot was the leader of the group, after all – or so he guessed, and the pizzeria's promotional material surely indicated as much, but he doubted the managers actually had any insight on the ghosts in the suits, and what their dynamic was in reality. Basically, who knew? If he was lucky, maybe it wouldn't even prove to be such a problem.

Before he knew it, he had arrived in front of the establishment's cast-iron double doors, the sheer thickness of which indicated his technical higher-ups had at least some inkling of what they needed to keep contained. Although, now that he'd formally met them first-hand, perhaps "need" was a bit of a strong word for it. They were still a threat, by all accounts given, but at least they were aware of the danger they posed. He glanced at his watch – twenty minutes to midnight; time enough to to get in the office, and get settled in. It may not have been strictly necessary, but he felt very uncomfortable with being near the bots as they were waking up, and he sincerely doubted his stand on that matter would ever change. He exchanged the obligatory pleasantries with his boss (who was just leaving after a late night pushing paper), waved the elderly man goodbye and took off his purple uniform shirt in favor of a plain white turtleneck as soon as he heard the door mechanism lock in place; it was go time.

* * *

[ooo] 

Finding Freddy was easy enough – the bear was sitting at one of the tables in the dining hall, playing some sort of a board game with Foxy; whatever it was, it involved lots of old arcade machine tickets arranged into neat columns and rows. What surprised Mike was the brown mascot's reaction to his supposedly unwanted return: the bot simply waved him over, as if he'd been expecting it all along.

"Hello there, mister Schmidt."

"Um… hi," the young man answered, warily.

"I see you chose to disregard my warnings; unfortunate, but not unexpected." The robot's hand darted forward, replacing one of the tickets farther from him and removing another one from the table.

"Cut 'im some slack, Freddy," the fox shot back, mirroring the bear's actions. "Being this hostile all the damn time hasn't done us any favors so far."

"Hostility and a healthy dose of cautious reluctance are two different things, my naive vulpine friend," the ursine retorted, returning the ticket that Foxy had removed to its original place. "Also, you skipped a tile again."

"Damn it." The fox took back his move, and pushed a different piece forth. "For the life of me I can't understand how you remember where the grid's supposed ta be with such ease."

"Just practice, really," Freddy explicated. "That and the mental fortitude I derive from watching you struggle, but I'll admit you're getting better at this faster than I ever did."

"Sorry to interrupt, er, whatever _this_ is," Mike intervened, "but I take it you don't hold it against me that I returned?"

The bear gave a small, amused chuff. "Not really, no." He sighed, and finally tore his gaze from the game to look the guard in the eye. "If I'm being honest, mister Schmidt, and do keep in mind that my honesty is a rare and precious reserve… I was dreading you wouldn't. Don't get me wrong, what you're doing here is still stupid and irresponsible and my advice from last night still officially stands, but even so." The animatronic shrugged, and resumed staring intently at the table once more. "It's nice to have new faces around."

"For the record, Mike, we're playing checkers," Foxy chimed in. "Without actual checkers, or an actual board, because fuck our collective un-lives is why. Upside-down tickets are whites, right-side up ones are blacks, and the friggin' grid-thing you're just supposed to remember because _somebody_'s a special snowflake who went to special snowflake-school and assumes everyone else can emulate the capacities of his top-heavy noggin."

"Not to pull a cheap shot, Foxy, but you're the odd one out here," Freddy responded. "Well, you and mister Schmidt, I presume. Though to be fair your lack of private tutoring had more to do with your, ah, financial situation than your intellectual capabilities."

"Freddy, I went to fuckin' juvie," the vulpine answered, deadpan. "For trying to strangle my head-teacher with a length of shoestring. No offense, but I'd never fit in with your lot."

"Your head-teacher was a perverted creep and your actions were nothing but justified," the bear countered, "though not lacking in characteristic hotheadedness. Still waiting for your move, by the by."

The fox's eye twitched, in a way that should have looked jarring with how his face was built but nevertheless seemed perfectly natural. "'Bout _this_ far from literally flipping the table on you, _by the by_."

"But you won't," the ursine answered calmly, "because that would mean you forfeit the match and we both know that you're a sore loser."

Foxy groaned, but said nothing. For his part, Mike had finally realized what bothered him about the way the animatronics talked as he listened to the two banter: aside from their distinctively erudite choice of words (well, most of the time), there was also the fact that their auto-tuned voices seemed to be superimposed over a background of ghoulish moans and labored breathing that sounded far too organic to be produced by their respective voice-boxes, barely audible but deeply unsettling. _As if I needed any more reminders that I'm basically surrounded by zombies in animal __costume__s._ He shuddered involuntarily, watching the robots twitch and stutter at every move. _Though, this reminds me…_ The young man rifled through his bag, pulling out a can of air-freshener spray.

Freddy noticed, and cocked his head to the side curiously. "What's that for?"

Mike tossed him the can, which he deftly caught from midair. "Use it," he encouraged. "Trust me, you'll thank me later. Or… maybe not, I guess, doesn't matter. Point is, my nostrils'll certainly be thankin' you for it."

The bear cringed, but halfheartedly doused his plush in a few puffs of the stuff. "Well done, mister Schmidt. I'm certain there's less flattering ways to tell someone they smell bad out there." He passed the freshener on to Foxy, who gleefully covered himself in a cloud of lavender-smelling smog. "You know, it isn't our fault these suits haven't been washed in ages," the brown mascot added.

"Deodorant showers, for when proper sanitary solutions take too long and/or cost too much!" the fox announced, managing to sound not unlike an early-morning telemarketer. "Aw, man, this brings back some nostalgia."

"Yeaah..." Mike continued, trying to ignore the vulpine's random outburst. "Anyway, sorry if that was a mite too direct, but I'm pretty sure this particular issue is paranormal in origin, and I doubt any amount of cleaning and bleaching could actually manage to get rid of it. On the plus side, the air-freshener seems to work."

"I can neither confirm nor deny that," Freddy retorted gruffly. "Stay if you wish, mister Schmidt, but don't hold me responsible if anything untoward happens to you." With these ominous final words, the bear turned his back to the man, sitting back down at the table. Mike took this as his queue to leave, retrieving the spray can from the overzealous fox and setting off for the office, careful not to trip over anything in the moonlit gloom.

* * *

[ooo] 

As he walked, the young night-guard felt a shiver run down his spine – he was being watched. He quickly spun round, but saw nothing out of the ordinary, at least not at first glance. For a split second though, there was an odd glint at the edge of a window, as though the glow of an eye was reflected against the dust-gritted glass. He shook his head slowly. _This place is getting to me._

It was pouring, outside. Mike could hear the rain banging against the roof of the building, loud enough to drown out the faint sounds of the animatronics moving about. It was for this reason, perhaps, that he hadn't heard Chica sneak into the security office from the other side and shut the door on him before he could get in. The lowered bulkhead perplexed him momentarily, at least until he peered in through the battered plexiglass window, and the robot chicken jumped into his field of view from the right with a trademark screech. Apparently causing him to fall on his ass like a kid at a horror house wasn't humiliating enough for her, because she laughed at him as he tried to get up. It was a well-meaning chuckle, though, insofar as he could discern any tone from that mechanical rattle.

"Now you know what the last couple a' weeks were like for us," the avian said as she opened the door, still snickering under her breath.

"I don't think _I _ever terrorized you like that, though," Mike shot back morosely.

"I dunno, mister night-guard," she answered with a hint of a growl. "Think on it for a second."

He thought on it for a second, and remembered the uniform tucked away in his bag. "Oh."

"Yep, _oh_. But," she continued, her voice returning to normal, "it's all water under the bridge now, isn't it? I mean, what's an honest garment mistake – resulting in several murder attempts – between friends, after all? Besides," she whispered conspiratorially, "between you and me, I think we're getting the better end of the forgiveness deal here; don't tell anyone, though, they might sue."

"Is there any point in time that you're _not_ embroiled in, like, fifty separate layers of irony?" the man retorted, though he couldn't keep a thin smile from his face.

"Yeah, on Fridays. That's when I'd see my psychiatrist, if I had one."

Mike laughed despite himself. "Heh, okay, okay. Um, not that I mind the visit, but why are you here, exactly?"

"Ya' know, exploring, playing pranks on unsuspecting chumps, the usual stuff," the mascot replied absent-mindedly. She threw open a few drawers at random, and frowned. "Didn't make much of an effort to personalize your work-space, did you now?"

"And it's a good thing I didn't," he sighed, "otherwise I'd have a giant robotic chicken rifling through my belongings right now. Didn't your parents teach you not to snoop?"

Mike froze, realizing what he'd just said. Chica stopped too, and there was a slight _crack_ as she crushed the empty inkwell she'd pulled from one of the drawers in her balled-up fist.

"Nope," she answered after a few tense seconds, "didn't get to that chapter yet. Besides, I think there's a law somewhere that says the undead are exempt from manners; sorry about your jar-thing, my fingers slipped."

_Sure, and my name's Genghis Khan,_ the guard thought. "Uh, sorry… about..."

"No, no, it's cool" the bot cut him off. "Friday can't come sooner, can it, eh?" She gave a small chortle, and the awkward atmosphere dissipated somewhat. "Say, mister Schmidt, can you see all the good that I said you'd do for us yet?"

"Can't say I do," he admitted, thinking back on the incident that he'd just provoked.

"Really?" She tilted her head, peering at him as though genuinely confused. "You're a smart person, I can tell, even if you don't let in on much. Have you really that little faith in yourself that you can't even see it?"

"I..."

"_Think_, mister Schmidt. What d'you think tormented us most, all these years, eating away at our sanity? You even mentioned it earlier in this conversation, if only tangentially."

"The… what, the uniform?"

"Close, but still no cigar."

Suddenly, Mike understood. "The night-guards! Every time, you finished a night-guard off, chased 'em, killed 'em, whatever… and then management would just hire a new one!"

"Uh-huh," Chica nodded. "It was like one of those recurring nightmares, where you're forced to do the same thing over and over again. Didn't help that we have trouble telling what's real from what's all in our minds to begin with..."

"… and since you couldn't even tell them apart, it might as well been a groundhog day loop for all you guys knew," he finished.

"Groundhog's day loop?"

"S'a comedy, came out this February I think. You'll just have to trust me that it makes sense."

"Sure, whatever. We figured out what was going on, eventually, but there was always this nagging doubt. What if one of them was our killer?"

"So you felt compelled to make sure," Mike continued her train of thought, "only of course they tried to keep you away 'cause of all the bad stories. Can't imagine that did good things to your temper either; and you couldn't just talk it out, because your voice-boxes were all broken… speaking of which, that's an oddly specific malfunction for four different robots to have, don't you think?"

"Only if you think that it's a malfunction."

"Wait, what?"

The avian only shrugged her shoulders mysteriously.

"Oh, not this again!" the night-guard bemoaned. "Are you implying someone intentionally sabotaged you, or what?"

"I'm not implying anything, Mike. We're not conscious during the day, so it's not like I'd have any idea. But, I'm just saying… Our murderer would be the kind to get a chuckle out of making us killers like him, I think."

The young man shivered, partly disturbed and partly with fury. "That's… disgusting."

"It is," she said darkly. "But, now our voices are fixed, our recognition system's turned on, and we have a night-guard we know we can trust by our side! Don't you see, how amazing all of this is? The others, I haven't seen them acting this normal, this… sane, in a long, long time. And it's all thanks to you!"

"N- not really," Mike countered, rubbing the back of his head. "I mean, literally all I did was to reattach a few wires so a crazy rabbit wouldn't tear me in half on the spot. That's not exactly heroic."

"You could have just run away, though," the bird pointed out.

"I...suppose. No offense, but it just didn't cross my mind at the time, or I probably would have."

"Sure, whatever you say, mister night-guard," she answered with a devious grin.

"So, I heard Freddy say something about you all going to private school?" the young man changed the subject.

"Yup. Well, all of us except Foxy."

"What about him?"

"Foxy? He… uh, well, he tends to isolate himself. Like, a lot. I guess he thinks we don't trust him or something? I dunno. I mean, he _has_ done some nasty stuff, but then again we all have, so I'm guessing his behavior actually stems from this, like, deeply rooted inferiority complex he's had ever since we first became friends."

"What, he thinks foxes aren't hip enough for you?"

"Pffft, what? No. We were friends before the murders, you dummy. Me and Bonnie were siblings, same with Freddy and Goldy. Our families were… to say ritzy would be an understatement; filthy stinkin' rich would be a better description. I mean, don't get the wrong idea here, they never spoiled us or anything. They did send us to private school, yeah, but it wasn't the sort of private school where you get a diploma if you put in enough cash – Bonnie's some kind of a tech whiz, and Freddy's read at least a quarter of his ridiculous two-floor library. Foxy, on the other hand, was the single child of a single mom, and he's always had trouble with authority. I don't think our parents were too keen on our friendship with him… but they never said anything, and it wouldn't have mattered if they did 'cause for all his dramatic nonsense Foxy's a pretty cool guy, and an awesome friend. He's a lot smarter than he gives himself credit for, too, though his skill-set's a bit, eh, different from ours."

"How so?"

"Well, I dread to think why he needed to learn how to pick complex locks."

_**A/N: Oh, so this is what happens when you try to write a story while learning for final exams; ok. Yeah, I sincerely apologize for the wait, even though at this point I'm starting to sound like a broken record.**_

_**That said, it's worth noting that coffee scenes are a pretty big motif in my writing - that's a fancy way of saying that I use them as a crutch whenever my inspiration runs dry. Oh well. I was gonna ramble some more, but to be honest I can't remember what for the life of me. If writing the next part starts dragging on for too long, I think I'll start uploading some of my older works periodically - I've put that off so far because, well, they're written for a group, based on prompts, so the format's a little odd. Still, let me know what you think!**_

**_Shadows lurk in the night,  
_****_The glow of your light  
_****_Shall soon be snuffed out  
_****_By worry and doubt  
_****_You are afraid  
_****_Forever changed  
_****_Yet I shall wait  
_****_Yet I shall wait  
_****_For I  
_****_Am still  
_****_Here!_**


	7. Chapter 7 - Ghosts of gab

_**Chapter 7 - Ghosts of gab**_

The smell of rain filled the halls of the old pizzeria, invigorating, seeming to breathe new life into the stale, stagnant air of the decrepit establishment as the uneven drum-beat of the storm on the shingles kept the rhythm of a torrential downpour. Having sent Chica on her way with a parting puff of lavender-scented air freshener, Mike Schmidt now wondered what to do with the rest of his shift. He supposed he ought to still check the cameras – it _was_ his job, after all – but, truth be told, if anyone did break in the ensuing awkwardness would be nigh unavoidable. He idly considered how the animatronics might react to intruders; he immediately wished that he hadn't.

He picked up his tablet, groaned, and put it back down. The bots would probably still associate active cameras with, ah, unpleasant things, wouldn't they? Best not to risk it, then; spying on people wasn't his style, anyway – not unless his life was on the line, he corrected himself, thinking back on his first couple of weeks in the office. Amazing what an impact a few small decisions could have, eh…

He swiveled in his chair a couple of times, stopping when he began to grow dizzy, and sighed. After everything that had happened, and out of everything that _could_ happen, he would have hardly believed that his job could ever be so, so... boring. He felt almost tempted to go out and try to mingle in with the bots, but jaded as he may be he wasn't outright suicidal. He was beginning to trust the chicken, and the others didn't seem all that bad either, but she was supposedly the sanest of the lot and yet still had temper issues that would make an anger management veteran cringe in sympathy. It made sense, of course – hell, he'd probably be quite cranky too if somebody murdered him and walked off scot-free; but when you dealt with robots twice your size that could probably part your head from your body with next to no effort, "quite cranky" could very easily translate to "quite dead", and he was hardly in the market for _that_. It was a shame, though… he wasn't particularly good with kids, but he could tell that these were good children. He wondered what they could have become, if only things had gone differently…

His musings were interrupted by the last sound that he would have expected to hear, one that nevertheless caused his blood to curdle: the old plastic phone on his desk began ringing. After a moment of hesitation, he reached towards it, his trembling hand hovering above the matte-black receiver.

_This has to be some kind of a prank call, it has got to be._

Thusly reassuring himself, he picked up and droned in as monotonous and nasal a voice as he could possibly muster: "Hello and good evening, you've reached the security office of Freddy Fazbear's Family Pizzeria, a magical place for kids and grown-ups alike, where your dreams and nightmares can and will come to life. We're very sorry, but the restaurant is closed for the night, so please try again later."

_...mister Schmidt..._

Thunder rolled. Mike stood there, frozen, wanting to slam down the receiver but unable to, as though some unseen force had pinned him in place; he wasn't even sure that the pained, guttural whisper calling his name had come through the earpiece – it felt rather as though it had come from directly behind him, or that it had wormed its way inside of his brain without ever bothering with his ears.

"H- hello?" he answered eventually.

There was a pause, long enough for him to begin hoping that he was merely imagining things; then:

_Hello, good sir! Are you by chance experiencing paranormal activity? Robots that move by themselves, strange phone calls in the mid of the night? Here at Ghostbusters inc. (all rights reserved), we have just the thing! Quality service 24/7, payment up-front, no refunds ever. Call now!_

The young man elected to simply stand still, mouth agape, failing to muster any words in response.

_He he, sorry; couldn't help but respond in kind, though I think my voice may have ruined the effect just a little bit. So say, mister Schmidt, do you by chance enjoy riddles?_

"I- what? Sorry?" he managed, more with the strength of confusion than that of conviction.

_You seemed preoccupied, and I figured it might brighten you up, so I thought of a few. _

At this point, the little gears in Mike's brain finally started turning again, alerting him that he should probably at least attempt to string together a coherent sentence or two; he completely ignored them.

"Goldy?" he guessed.

There was a slight chuckle, like the rattling of dry leaves on the pavement.

_Yes! Sorry, I got excited and forgot to even introduce myself properly until now._

The night-guard sighed in relief, and even cracked a thin smile. "Trespass excused, but only on grounds of exceptional circumstances."

_No, no, that shouldn't be an excuse. Just because you're dead that's no reason to be forgetting one's manners._

…

_(I've been meaning to use that line since forever.)_

"And, uh, to what do I owe the honor?"

_I've been watching you for a while now. And, well, no offense – but it's kind of weird having a night-guard just out and about through the restaurant, and if I'm being honest even a bit… unsettling. Chica trusts you though, and that's enough for me to at least give you a chance. So, about those riddles? There may even be a prize in it for you if you do well enough..._ she added conversationally.

"Um… sure! Shoot."

There was a sound that, with some imagination, could be construed as someone clearing their throat (quite possibly Cthulhu).

_I can live only where there is light, yet should light shine upon me I shall wither and die. What am I?_

Mike thought for a second. "Shadow?"

_Uh-huh, you guessed it. Don't get too smug though, I was taking you easy. Your turn!_

"Wait, you want _me_ to think of a riddle now? Uuuh… what has hands but can't clap?"

_A clock! That was too obvious though, so I'll give you another shot._

"Yeah, yeah, okay," he replied awkwardly. "Can't say I ever was any good at this. What, um, what gets wet when drying?"

_What gets wet when… huh. A towel?_

"Yep."

_Heh, that was pretty clever actually. My turn now!_

_I am always there, somewhere between the land or the sea and the skies above. No matter how long you chase, you shan't ever catch me. What am I?_

"The… the horizon?" he answered after no more than a moment of hesitation.

_...wow that was fast. I guess I might have some fun after all! Come on, let's hear it._

"Give me a moment. Um… mine aren't as fancy and elaborate as yours, I guess, but here goes: what has four eyes but can't see?"

_Aw man, that's a classic. Mississippi? Step up your game, buster!_

"Well, _I_ thought it was sort of hard when I heard it," he retorted, slightly vexed.

_Eh, it wasn't that bad. Let's see… Okay, here goes._

_Shorter than string, and the same length as tall, I sound like a duck, and you need me now most of all._

"Wh- what? Where do you even find these?"

_It's a passion of mine,_ the voice answered dismissively. _So?_

"Let me think. The same length as tall… so four letters. I sound like a duck?"

_Don't let Chica hear you_, the ghost intervened in clear amusement.

The man began mumbling under his breath, bringing a hand to his chin. "Is is… is it luck?"

_Darn. And I liked that one, too. Well, I'm listening._

"How… do you make the number one disappear?"

There was a long silence; then, finally:

_You add the letter "g", because that makes it gone. Did you think that one up on your own?_

"Nah, I remembered it from somewhere. Don't tell me you just came up with all of that poetry and stuff on the spot?"

_He he, nah, though I wish that I had. But clearly poetry isn't getting through to you so let's try something else:_

_What sort of a room has no doors nor windows?_

"I… a mausoleum?"

_Just sealing doors doesn't make them go away, so no. Giving up yet?_

"Not a chance." Then, to himself: "Now, what sort of a room doesn't… is it man-made, or..."

_Just a small hint, but I played a little dirty with that one. Nature's trying to give you a helping hand though, it seems._

Mike listened to the rain pattering on the roof of the pizzeria.

"Something to do with rain, thunder… give me a second."

_Sometimes they're not even rooms. Sometimes they're harbingers of destruction._

"What? That just makes it even more confusing! Um, it's a room, but not really, it's got something to do with rain and/or dirt and it sometimes… what? Blows up or something?"

The silence on the other end of the phone was the sort that you normally get when a baby is teetering on the edge of his very first step and everybody else has their hands on the cameras.

"Has no doors, likes rain and dirt, but blows up. Or… the one that blows up isn't the same thing?"

More expectative silence.

"...no door, likes rain, looks like something that blows up." Something seemed to click in his head. "Wait, no! It _looks_ like something blowing up, it likes rain and mud and it's a room with no doors, goddamn... it's a mushroom! The answer is mushroom!"

A girlish giggle echoed down the halls to his office, this time clearly not coming out of the earpiece.

_Good job, mister Schmidt. There's no empiric evidence that criminals aren't good with riddles, but at the very least you seem to be patient. As a prize, look into the lower-most drawer in your desk, on the left!_

Mike did as instructed and, after sifting through a few yellowed documents and assorted knick-knacks, found a pair of old walkie-talkies in what appeared to be still functioning order.

_You'll only need one, _the voice explained. _This way I can contact you even if you're away from your office, though I'm still strictly limited to the bounds of the restaurant. You're the only night-guard so far not to immediately slam the receiver on me, so a more direct means of communication seemed only appropriate._

"That's pretty cool," the young man admitted. "These were probably standard issue at some point, not sure why somebody decided to hide them away like that; either way, thanks!"

_Don't mention it. Oh, and before I forget… one last test of your faith._

The security office seemed to suddenly become colder and somehow darker, the air rippling and filled with a maddening, ubiquitous buzz.

_I am behind you now, mister Schmidt,_ the voice said, with a definite echo.

"That's not ominous at all," the night-guard retorted, trying and failing to feign some form of calm.

Mentally preparing himself, Mike swiveled round slowly… and outright fell from his chair with a scream. The apparition was gone in an instant, like the lingering after-image of a Polaroid flash, but it had been more than enough to burn what he saw into the back of his mind for as long as he'd live. Not an empty costume, however rotten and creepy, no, but a corpse – a desiccate corpse, shriveled skin pallid and mummified, hanging on to stick-thin, fragile limbs, grey hip-length hair swaying in ethereal wind, face bared of flesh staring down at him with empty sockets lit from within by a spiteful white flame. Her clothes had been tattered rags, sullied by grave dirt and stained with decomposition, her feet dangling in the air as she floated a good meter above the aged carpet. The buzzing stopped, the room returning to normal temperature; the two-way radio on the iron desk crackled, and the familiar voice of the ghost in the golden suit could be heard:

_You pass muster, mister Schmidt. There was fear in your eyes, but no guilt, nor even a sparkle of recognition. Sorry to have scared you like that._

"Apology...accepted..." he managed, in between panting and trying to calm down his heart, "...but only on grounds of exceptional circumstances."

_Are you implying I've forgotten my manners?_ she asked, amused.

"No, but you certainly don't make it a secret that you are deceased," he replied. "Oh my..."

_Try not to faint, mister Schmidt. Really, I am sorry about that. But I had to make sure._

"Yeah. I understand. So, uh… what now?"

_I'll leave you to your own devices, I suppose. Though, if you have the time… I'd really appreciate it if you checked up on Bonnie. He's hanging out on his own in the spare parts room, and looks to be in one of his funks. _

"Bonnie doesn't, ah, seem to like me a lot, though," Mike countered. "Meaning, I think he hates my guts. Not sure what help I could be of, except maybe as a punching bag, which I'd rather avoid."

_What? Bonnie doesn't hate you! I don't think Bonnie's even capable of hating anyone… well, except for the obvious, of course. And I get the feeling he might react better to somebody he doesn't know quite as well, anyway._

"If you say so," the guard accepted, uncertain.

[ooo]

_Tap tap tap_, went the rain on the checkered floor, dripping from thin, damp cracks in the ceiling. _This place is really on its last legs_, the young night-guard thought as he made his way towards the backroom, silently praying that the storm would not cause a black-out. Lights flickering and odd noises half-heard in the shadows, this already felt enough like a horror-themed suicide mission without it being pitch dark – he wasn't even sure why he'd agreed to this in the first place, besides his apparent status as everyone's doormat. He knew enough of their tale now to feel at least sympathetic, but the fact remained that these robots had killed people, actual people with actual lives that were probably worth a lot more than his own; some of them may have even had families, loved ones, someone who would still wait for them long after they were declared missing, with hope in their voice and pain in their eyes. So yeah, he could understand, but it was not his place to forgive, nor was he ready to trust quite just yet.

He stopped with a jolt – what with his musings, he'd nearly run head-first into the spare parts room. Deciding to employ caution first, he took a quick peek of the chamber: empty costume heads staring at him, same as always, same old spectacle of limp suits strewn about; the one immediate difference was the lifeless endoskeleton propped against a corner, moved from its usual spot to make room for the purple animatronic bunny currently perched in its place. Mike knocked on the door-frame, entered, tried to tip his hat before remembering that he'd taken it off when he changed his uniform.

"Hey there."

The bot snapped his head around to face him, staring him down with those crimson eyes.

"...hey," Bonnie answered after a moment of hesitation. His voice dropped an octave, becoming the vaguely menacing growl that it always did when the rabbit talked to the night-guard; this time it was forced though, almost… tired. "D'you need anything, or-"

Mike sighed – this was a bad idea, he knew, but he no longer cared. He sat next to the killer mascot, noting with a cringe that the metal workbench had buckled slightly under the robot's weight.

"Nah, but I think you do. If there's anything that you wanna talk about… you seem down."

"Me? Down?" Bonnie laughed, and it was the fakest laugh the guard had ever heard. "Mister Schmidt, I have everything that a fourteen-year-old could possibly dream of – I'm a rock star, forever young, and as tall as they get." He clenched his fist, hard enough to make the steel in his fingers groan. "What's there to feel down about?"

The young man shrugged. "I dunno, seems to me like you're missing a thing or two."

"Such as?"

Mike only looked at him, feeling nothing but genuine pity for the uncanny thing. They were alike, in a way; and what would a lost child miss most, after all? Bonnie's optics seemed to actually widen, and he swiftly turned his gaze away from the man.

„I miss my parents too, you know," the night-guard said softly after a while. "Sometimes..." he trailed off.

„Oh, don't tell me that, mister Schmidt," the robot countered, embittered. "It's easy for you. You could just go and see 'em, if you actually wanted to."

The young man simply shook his head in response, but something about the motion – the somber slowness of it, or perhaps a glint in the night-guard's eye – set the rabbit on edge.

„Big row?" the bot asked, now looking at him once more.

„Car crash," the man answered drily.

"Oh." The rabbit fidgeted awkwardly in his seat. "Ouch. Sorry. Do you want to, uh, talk about it?"

"Hey, now," Mike chuckled, "that's my line and you know it."

"No, it's just, I didn't know that…" The mascot brought a hand to his face, and rubbed at his temples.

"Sorry, Mike, I swear I'm not normally this much of a jerk." Then, catching up with his own choice of words: "Uh, I mean, mister-"

"No, no, it's okay," the night-guard interrupted. "I'm really not the sort of person that warrants addressing as 'mister last name' anyway; just call me Mike."

"Right. Mike." The purple animatronic pounded a fist on the table, startling the human, and hopped down from his perch – though the rigid mask of his face had not visibly changed, something in his demeanor made it clear he was smiling now. "Look at me, spouting angsty nonsense when I really do have nothing to be complainin' about. I'm alive, my friends are alive, and we're all here together when by rights we ought to be dead an' gone. Isn't that enough, after all?"

"Yeah, that's the spirit!" the night-guard cheered him on.

"So what about you, mister Mike? Anyone special in your life so far?"

The young man stifled a laugh. "Mister Mike? Really?"

"Don't change the subject," the rabbit retorted, giving him a sly look.

"Not really, no," he answered after a moment of thought. "I live alone in a shitty flat in the old-people neighborhood, and I spend most of the day sleeping so I don't black out on the shift. Really, I've had more interaction tonight than in the past few weeks put together; but that's okay, because I'm more of a loner anyway. It suits me just fine."

"...nah, I don't buy that,"the mascot responded after a pause. "I mean, I believe that you live alone, but I think you and I both know that's not healthy. Were you seriously never in a relationship?"

"Why are we even having this discussion right now?" the guard shot back, somewhat flustered.

"Because undeath is boring and spending a decade stuck in a restaurant will teach you to appreciate gossip," the bot answered deadpan. "And more relevantly, because if you're going to hang around here you'll end up becoming the sixth member of this five-man band, I can tell. And If that happens, I'd rather know what sort of person you are first. Granted, the fact that it makes you hilariously uncomfortable is also a welcome bonus," he finished with a shrug.

"Well, there was this girl at uni..." Mike recounted awkwardly. "But it would never have worked, especially not after I had to drop out. I bet she doesn't even remember me now."

"I don't know, mister Mike," the animatronic retorted in a serious tone. "Maybe it isn't my place to talk, but these sort of things tend to be more serious at your age, more… lasting." He brightened up. "Have you tried calling her?"

The night-guard made a strangled noise, and hid his face in his palms. "Seriously? Come on, I was counting on you to kick me out the door by this point, not badger me about my failed love life!"

The bot started laughing, like a cross between a malfunctioning TV set and a gleeful buzz-saw, falling backwards onto one of the auxiliary tables. "Sorry, sorry, I'm just messing with ya'. Still, it was fairly effective at lightening up the atmosphere, don't you think?"

"At my expense, yeah," the young man shot back morosely.

"And in your benefit too, I'd say. Look, uh, I was never a very good judge of character; it's what got us into this mess in the first place, and there's not a day that goes by that I don't blame myself for it. But I'm starting to actually hope that I'm right about you so, for what it's worth, I'll go ahead and say that I trust you." For a moment the two locked gazes, and it seemed to the night-guard that there was something fragile, and pleading, in the cold light of the robot's optics. "So please, just, _please_ don't make me regret it." Then, looking up at the clock: "Aw man, it's nearly six o'clock! I better get back to the stage before-"

Bonnie's voice cut off with a burst of static, his frame shuddering momentarily as he got up and, mindlessly, made his way back to the designated morning position. Mike watched him go, remaining himself as silent and still as a statue. They were murderers too, he _had_ to remember that. So why did it hurt so much, knowing that he didn't get to say "yes, you can trust me, I promise"?

_**A/N: Well this took (marginally) less than the last one, at least. Thing is, I'll be having final exams for more or less the entirety of this month (I've started already, as a matter of fact) so it's slowing me down quite a bit - even when I do get some time for myself, I'm usually too tired and/or stressed to focus on writing. Now, I'm not going to promise that updates will be much faster once I'm done with this, because that never does turn out well, but alas we can at the very least hope. I'n the meanwhile, I hope you'll enjoy this excruciatingly long update! I'm still not entirely satisfied with it, but it contains Bonnie-Mike dialogue and I've been waiting to make those two nerds interact properly since forever so I won't complain overmuch.**_

_**Excerpt from Freddy's notebook, hidden away in one of the mascot heads in the back room:**_

_**Aimless astride at the edge of oblivion,  
Hanging on to this cheap imitation of life  
With the will of the ghost in the carrion,  
We are specters of vengeance, of unfinished strife.  
Upon my copper veins and iron bones,  
We shall not stop, no hesitation nor misguided pride  
In lost humanity, no mercy,  
Not one of myriad guilty thoughts that pierce me  
Shall keep your blood from spilling on the flagstones:  
We could not run, but neither can you hide.**_


	8. Chapter 8 - Brief intermission

_**Chapter 8 - Brief intermission, into the past**_

How long had it been? Days? Years? He didn't know; he didn't care, either. His mind was in ruins, his perception of the world little more than thick haze; he sometimes lost hours' worth of memory at a go, waking up in strange places, and mustering the strength to form coherent thoughts seemed an insurmountable task. He had a notion that he was broken, but little interest in doing something about it: he was a monster, a freak… there was nothing about him worth fixing. Sometimes his mind was a blank, he acted as if he really was nothing more than a robot, wandering around aimlessly or humming pre-programmed songs to himself. Sometimes he forgot he was dead, and searched the empty halls for his parents, until he ran into one of the others or found a mirror or… something or another would eventually bring it all rushing back, crushing him. Sometimes that made him depressed; other times it just made him angry. More often than not, though, he simply felt scared: scared that he'd forget who he was at some point, and simply cease to exist; scared that he'd never see his parents again or, worse still, that they'd somehow end up in the restaurant one night, looking for him perhaps, and he'd hurt them in one of his crazes. He'd been told to let go of his old name, and he'd answered that he couldn't remember it anyway. He'd been told that it would get better with time, and to simply try to hang on, and he really, really wished that he could – but he felt himself slipping, more and more with each day he spent sleeping a sleep that was much, _much_ too close to oblivion for his liking, as his AI-controlled body entertained random strangers. He'd been told he would one day get vengeance, and that promise was the only thing that still kept him from falling apart. He had to kill the killer. He had to kill the killer! There were nights when that was the only sentence his ailing mind could actually put together, though the clarity with which it did so was at least admirable. It was on a night such as this that the gory urban legend of Freddy Fazbear's first truly took off.

When he saw purple _(purple like the mess that greeted him in the mirror, purple like murder, purple like hatred)_, all the jumbled, stray fragments of thought in his head were erased by the searing, red-hot rage that would, in some way or another, define his life from then on. Blackness began to trickle down his synthetic hide, oil and foul-smelling goop gushing forth from his joints, streaming from his eye-sockets and out through the gaps in his teeth; he saw the man run, and rushed after him in a bout of insanity – limbs poorly coordinated, his every move unnatural and painful.

The possessed robot leaped and, overshooting his target, smashed into the front door with a deafening crash that shattered the glass and dented the metal barrier. Regaining his balance with ease afforded by anger, the mascot struck out and sent the fleeing guard sprawling onto the floor. He grabbed the man's leg as the latter tried to scuttle away and swung him around like a ragdoll, slamming him into the near wall, then the marble flagstones, then whirling him round for momentum and hurling him through the wooden door at the other end of the corridor, sending him skidding into the dining hall. Not willing to let his victim so much as get up, the robot stormed after him, delivering a bone-splintering kick to the crumpled form of the middle-aged night-guard and feeling a moment's worth of cruel satisfaction as a loud, ugly _crack_ reached his ears. There followed a moment of silence, broken only by the moans of the man at his feet, as Bonnie looked down on his "work", his eyes blank, his mind racing to catch up to what his body had done without it. The flame burning away at his sanity had subsided a bit, but… not nearly enough. He picked the guard up by the throat, dully noting the arterial red of the blood that had dripped from his mouth and was now soaking into his greying beard, content on doing no more that watching the life drain away from the man's frightened eyes; that is, at least, until he finally noticed the arm grasping feebly at his mechanical wrist. The bot jolted forward with preternatural speed, headbutting the human with skull-splitting force before biting down on what was left of his face, trashing his head like a shark until he felt something give and the guard's dying throes ceased for good. He then removed the remains from his mouth with his free hand, dropping them to the ground with a _plop,_ and dragged the now headless corpse into the Parts Storage room, giving it a messy but – he felt – fitting burial in one of the spare Freddy suits.

It was only later that his thoughts fully cleared, and the horror of what he had done on a whim settled in. He'd thought he could never forget, that he'd never forgive himself, that he'd hide somewhere until the crimson splatters all over him dried and his frame turned to rust… but in the end, the passing of the years would all but erode the memory of that night, upon which he first took a life.

_**A/N: As the title indicates, this is but a brief intermission - I uploaded this chapter primarily because I couldn't bear to maintain radio silence no longer, though the fact that this snippet didn't fit anywhere else in the story also played a role in it. I hope you all haven't given me up for dead yet! I do realize that this, short as it is, is horrendously late; at the same time, I've had a rather rough couple of months since I last updated. I've had myself a bit of a running accident, and scraped the skin right off of the lower half of my palms, all the way to the muscle in parts, and suffice it to say that didn't exactly help with the preparations I have to take care of for Uni. I'll be moving to England soon, which is super exciting but also all kinds of stressful, and coupled with having to wear huge Bloodborne-esque bandages on my arms it severely impeded my ability to write... well, anything, really. But hey, now I'm back, and you can expect the next (significantly longer) chapter to drop sometime next week. After that? Well, we'll see - as long as you're willing to stick around ;)**_

_**It's quiet.**_


	9. Chapter 9 - Relative normalcy

_**Chapter 9: Relative normalcy**_

In the weeks following his first contact with the haunted mascots of Freddy Fazbear's Family Pizzeria, Mike Schmidt began to slowly grow more accustomed to the odd hodgepodge of paranormal activity and inane shenanigans that his life had somehow become. Freddy kept a secret poetry journal on a misappropriated maths notebook, which he hid from everybody for fear of embarrassment (even though his writing wasn't half bad by anyone's standards). Chica couldn't cook so much as turn perfectly innocuous ingredients into gobs of weapons-grade poison, through some manner of unknown alchemy she had dubbed "art of baking". Despite being a two-meters-tall robot full of clicking motorized parts, Foxy could somehow pickpocket the guard without him ever noticing, and repeatedly did so – purportedly to keep in good practice, whatever that meant. It was more or less common knowledge that Bonnie and Goldy had a "thing" going; equally common knowledge was that nobody knew exactly what said "thing" entailed, not even the bots in question. All this random trivia and more, Mike had learned during his unprecedentedly long employment at the establishment: almost without his notice, what had started as an uneasy truce was slowly but surely becoming a genuine if unlikely friendship, and there were times when he nearly forgot that this all was based upon a convenient lie and a willful act on his part to feign ignorance. And yet even on nights such as those, something or other would eventually remind him of the specter of unwanted truth lingering uncomfortably close beneath the thin veneer that everything was alright. The animatronics were no lost little souls, no misunderstood beasts to be befriended by some fairytale hero; they were killers, they had taken lives in cold blood and if given the slightest hint of a reason they would undoubtedly do so again, rationalizing it all as part of their self-righteous quest for revenge. What would have happened, he wondered, had they not figured things out before they got to him? He'd be dead as a doorknob is what. They may be looking and even acting a tad goofy lately, but he still remembered how they had been, before - utterly terrifying, and ultimately unstoppable. And it would've been easier if he could simply bring himself to just hate them, but instead, he sort of admired them: they were clever, pleasant to be around and, considering what they'd been through, possessed of incredible strength of will. They weren't – no, they shouldn't have to be villains, and it actually broke his heart to admit to himself that, despite all that, they were still capable of such cruelty and blatant disregard for the value of life. Although… perhaps he wasn't the one to judge. After all, he knew all too well how easy it was to judge, if one saw things from a position more privileged. And it wasn't as if he was exactly innocent himself, was he now…

[ooo]

Folds of the tattered, threadbare cloth billowed eerily in the dark, swaying with a chill draft. Bright yellow eyes watched the display ponderously, the only sources of light in the thick, damp murk of the Cove.

...hah. As if that name ever fit. The place was a trash-heap, where unwanted things were thrown out to rust – not that Foxy minded. Being "unwanted" meant whatever customers this place even got during daytime would keep their grubby hands off him, and that suited him fine, it made him feel somewhat safe despite the helplessness of blacking out whenever the programming fully took his mind over. Of course, the place suited him for other reasons as well, but that was a whole 'nother matter, and he had other things to attend to. How long had it been? A week, maybe two… too long, anyway. His train of thought was momentarily derailed by the sight of his suit's red fur ruffling in a breeze that he couldn't feel. Why did that seem so melancholy? He gave a weary, static-filled sigh, and unconsciously flipped his eye-patch back down as he trained his gaze back towards the exit. _The silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain_ – that was from Poe, wasn't it? He remembered it from one of Freddy's unending tirades, that were apparently the bear's idea of friendly chatter. Well, he sure felt uncertain, and possibly sad as well. After all the numb, dreary hours spent wasting away in the shadows of a half-finished stage, divorced from a living body, it became hard to tell. Sure, he had the others to keep him company – but he didn't deserve it, and the others didn't deserve having to put up with his bipolar nonsense.

...alright, even he could recognize that was an unhealthy way to be thinking; he still felt lost as hell, though. But he had more or less the rest of eternity to sort himself out, whereas what he'd set out to do in the here and now was comparatively more urgent. At least, he thought it was, and he'd fight anyone who said otherwise.

There are many kinds of silence out there: the silence of a late-night trip to the fridge, the silence of empty rooms, the silence of rooms full to bursting with empty people. The particular silence that now descended upon the corridors of the old pizzeria was the steel-wrapped-in-velvet not-sound of something quite large trying to remain very silent, with varying degrees of success. There was a trick to blending in with the shadows, controlling his every motion with, ah, mechanic precision so as to go by unseen and unheard, yet another thing that Freddy had taught the fox in one of his conversational stints – it was a habit he always fell back to, whenever something upset him. Over the years, he'd grown so accustomed to the clamor of his metal feet on the marble floor that its lack was now somewhat unnerving, but he had to admit there was something empowering about sneaking around like the goddamned zombie-pirate-ninja-robot he was. At the very least, it made him feel a bit less unprepared; he'd never had a problem with darkness in life, but in death the sensation of being watched hounded him with every gloomy corner he rounded. He apparently wasn't the only one to be thinking this way either, as he nearly bumped into the brown bear himself on his way towards Parts'n Service.

"Foxy?"

"That's still my name, yeah."

"Not to intrude or anything, but, uh, what are you even doing?"

"I'm just... I don't know, wandering around or something, I guess? I could ask you the same."

"I mean, you literally could, but we both know that skulking around in the shadows is practically my only method of locomotion. Not so much in your case. So, do you have anything that you'd want to say…?"

"Only that this is a free shitty-restaurant-state, and you don't have a monopoly on skulking around in the shadows."

"Fair point. But, you know… we're supposed to be friends. We've known eachother for well over a decade now – I mean, not like we had much of a choice, but I for one can't think of any other three people I'd rather go to pizza hell with than you. I guess what I'm trying to say, in a really convoluted and awkward way, is that we're always going to watch out for each other, so if you've got anything weighing down on your mind you just ought to know that I'll listen, and not think ill of you, no matter what it may be."

"Freddy, jeez..." Foxy sighed, smiled inwardly, and pulled the brown mascot into an awkward side-hug. "I already know all of that, dumbass. What, d'ya think I've forgotten how lucky I am to have friends like you guys?" He let go, and lightly punched the bear's shoulder with his good hand. "Nah, but seriously, I'm fine. There's just something I need to do, but I'd rather not talk about it. It's nothing bad, though… the opposite, really."

"Okay then. I, uh, I guess? I really have no idea what this is about, but I'm not gonna pry, if that helps you."

"It does, Freddy. It really does."

[ooo]

Checkered floors, stretching endless before him, like some sort of demented chess board. How had he never noticed that before, really? Was he just a pawn after all? Mike Schmidt _hated_ the thought of being used as a pawn; he'd had enough of that in his life, and he swore that he'd put a bullet through the next two-bit slime that tried to swindle him into some shady deal. Okay, so maybe not _that_, but he'd sure as hell break the hypothetical swindler's nose. He didn't really like being violent, or getting this angry, but… experience was one hard-ass teacher. More importantly though, when was this damn corridor going to finally end? He felt like he'd been walking for ages. Wasn't it shorter the night before?

...on some level, Mike Schmidt was cognizant of the fact he was dreaming. On the one hand, that made him rather upset with himself, as it meant he had broken his self-imposed rule of not falling asleep on the job; on the other, he was fairly sure now that he was in (relatively) no danger, and dreams did always make him curious for more, reckless as that may be when considering his track record. _Still won't be a pawn though,_ he decided after a while. _I'd be more of an, I dunno, rook or something?_ Existential crisis thus solved, his attention returned to the mental environment his dreaming self currently found itself in, and with no small amount of unease noticed that light had suddenly grown more scarce, and that the walls appeared to be dripping black goop.

"Hello?" he called out. "Anyone wanna pop up and screech in my face? Now's your last chance, I don't think I'll be sticking around here much longer."

Nothing. It seemed as though the encroaching gloom had swallowed his every word.

"...your wallpaper's, uh, leaking," he tried once again.

Not even an echo. He had the strangest of feelings, that something out there was literally devouring all the sound he was making.

"I'll, uh… I'll be leaving now. Bye."

_...you'll be leaving now… die…_

The whispers were faint, but the voice was surely not his own. Why wasn't he waking up?

_...now's your last chance… I don't think you'll be sticking around here much longer…_

A flash of gold. Something large was approaching.

_...hello…_

Purple hat, purple tie. Wait, that wasn't right, was it? Goldy's accents were black.

_...your… hell… is… now…_

Slowly, gently almost, like a horror scene in slow motion… the golden mascot's head detached from its body, and stared at Mike with black, empty sockets. It hovered mid-air for a second, as though judging him, then lunged at the guard with a madman's roar.

The radio on the iron desk crackled, sounding like a roar to Mike's mind, and woke him up from his nightmare.

_Mister Schmidt? You, ah, okay there?_

Groggily, the night-guard nodded, and stretched. Then, realizing the gesture probably wasn't helpful: "Yeah, Goldy, I'm fine."

_You were twitching and, um, whimpering, and looking all around to be having quite a bad time. For the record, I wasn't watching you on purpose or anything. It's not creepy if I'm just passing by._

"You're a paragon of integrity, Goldy," he answered deadpan. "But yeah, don't worry about it. Thanks for helping me out."

_My pleasure. What now?_

"Dunno. I think I'll drop by the kitchen, try to make myself some spaghetti, blame Chica if anything happens to catch on fire."

_Sounds like a sound plan to me. I'll just hang 'round my poster, maybe try to posses a spider and take over the world. You know how it goes._

"A ghost possessing a robot possessing a spider? You know, it's quite telling that this has become a normal thing for me to hear in my day to day life. Alright, catch you later."

_Same. See ya._

[ooo]

There was something oddly appeasing about the sound of a boiling kettle, a vaguely nostalgic, nondescript feeling it awoke that reminded one of hot cocoa on a cold night mid-winter. Fazbear's kitchen was about as expected, grimy and dark, but with the soft light of a low-burning gas flame and the chatter of carefree people even a space such as this could be made amenably endearing.

"Why a kettle?"

"Because," Mike answered the chicken mascot, "despite what logic might dictate with regards to a pizzeria, I couldn't find nothing better. That and I've never actually used a pot to cook anything in my life. Pots are goddamn expensive."

"Your deliberate use of double negatives both scares and intrigues me," Bonnie cut in.

"Also, I'll admit that I'm no great cook, but weren't you supposed to add salt, like, ten minutes ago?" Chica added.

"I'm pretty sure that's not a hard-and-fast rule," the man countered, "but thanks for reminding me. I'll just..."

"Mike, I'm pretty sure that's not salt," the avian warned.

"What are you talking about?" he mumbled back absent-mindedly.

"Mike I'm pretty sure you just poured a fuckton of garlic granules on your spaghetti," she said flatly.

"Well this is one life experience I never thought I'd be having," Bonnie quipped, as Mike began making weird, panicked noises.

"By the by, I'm blaming you for ruining my good language," Chica continued. "Didn't anyone ever teach you not to swear around children?"

"Ruined?" the night-guard retorted, in-between frantic attempts to rescue his dinner. "If anything, I'd call your vocabulary enriched."

"Enriched like your pasta?" the rabbit chimed in, still chuckling under his breath.

"Gonna be overcooked in a minute, if you two don't stop distracting me with the commentary," the human shot back. Then, after scalding his tongue a few times: "Actually, I think the garlic adds to the flavor."

"Should I start on the sauce?" Chica asked.

"Sure, I'm feeling mildly self-destructive today," he retorted. "But let Bonnie mete out the ingredients."

"Aw, why?"

"Because there's less painful ways I could off myself if I wanted to, and because he's the only one out of all of you who seems to have gotten the hang of small, precise motions," Mike explained.

"I like fixing things," the rabbit said shrugging, as though his comment actually clarified anything.

About a quarter of an hour later, Mike sat down at a small plastic table he'd brought in from storage and started on eating his late-night meal. As the wind began to pick up outside the old walls, the conversation inside had lulled to a halt: there were plenty of questions the night-guard was dying to ask, plenty of subjects he dearly wished he could broach, and yet, even now, he still hardly dared to. One wrong move, one hair out of line, and… well, he'd count himself lucky if he only ruined the night for everybody involved. He could never be sure what might set the bots off, and what with the wildly impulsive reactions he'd witnessed first had he knew all too well he didn't need to step too far into the danger zone before he risked causing some irreversible damage; whether or not said irreversible damage would be applied to his spine was altogether another matter. Suffice it to say, he wasn't willing to take any chances.

"Just, I don't get this restaurant," he started, cautiously. "There's no way management doesn't know about you guys, I refuse to believe that. They shell out the cash to turn the security office into a goddamn bunker… but it never occurs to them to give me an emergency Freddy costume to wear? Either they know a lot more than what they let on with the training cassettes, or these people are just dumb as bricks."

"Option A, I should think," Bonnie answered, "though the two are not mutually exclusive."

"They tried the Freddy disguise trick before," Chica clarified. "Didn't really work out for them, though it managed to slow us down for a while. You had training cassettes?"

"Yeah, I was curious about that too," the rabbit bot added. "Can, uh, can we hear them?"

"Please?" the chicken joined in.

Mike looked from one eager face to another, different urges conflicting within him. "I- I don't think you'll want to," he replied at an end.

"Why not? Come on!" Bonnie urged, curiosity peeking into his voice.

"Because, the dude accidentally recorded his death at _your hands_," the guard levelled, trying his best to keep his voice even. "He seemed to care quite a bit about all of you, even if he didn't know what was going on, but you murdered him anyway. He was… pretty much my first friend in this place. And you killed him. So, yeah."

There followed a moment, long enough that Mike's mind caught up with his mouth, and he wondered, panicking, if he'd gone too far. Then:

"...oh." The exclamation was soft, but conveyed all the pain of a wracking sob. Slowly, as if no longer sure on her own two feet, Chica lowered herself to the floor and sat down. "_Oh._"

Meanwhile, Bonnie reached a hand out towards the night-guard, but let it fall back down by his side halfway through. "Mike, I..." he trailed off.

They didn't break anything, but now he'd gone and broken their hearts, and somehow this was far worse. _They deserve their hearts broken, _Mike thought. _They wouldn't care in the slightest if it didn't affect me,_ he thought. Then he sighed. _Goddamn it, I'll never forgive myself if I leave them like this._

"Guys, look…" His mind struggled, at a complete loss for words. "Just, forget I said anything. You've gone through a lot… you deserve a clean slate, just this once."

"Do we, Mike?" Chica asked, resting her head on her knees. "We've caused nothing but trouble, ever since we woke up living dead. We shouldn't _be_. And nothing we do will ever be enough to fix what we've already done."

"That's right," the man answered, seating himself beside her, "it won't be. But if I thought you were killers, I wouldn't be here right now. And if I thought you were irredeemable, I wouldn't be trying to cheer you both up. Look," he continued, casting a glance to the rabbit that had slumped down on the opposite side, "I'm really sorry I brought this up – not because this isn't something that we should be discussing, but because right now really wasn't the moment. There will be a time, but… I'm not a psychologist, and your case is real damn unique anyway. The last thing I wanted was to make you relive that, though. I have faith in you; I know you regretted it, too."

"You said… he cared about us?" Bonnie asked quietly, keeping his gaze firmly fixed to the floor.

"Yeah. And I'm betting he wouldn't have wanted to see you like this," he replied.

"Damn." Chica raised her head slightly, giving the black marble tiles a desolate stare; she wiped at the corner of her amethyst eye and, to Mike's surprise, smudged some substance – blood or oil, it was too hard to tell – all over her cheek. "Did he have a weird, sort of cute way of saying hello? I think I know who it was."

The man only nodded, wordlessly prompting her to continue.

"He was the last one we… you know. Went after."

"He lasted the longest, too," the rabbit bot added. "Two years, maybe more… I'm not really sure."

"We owe him a lot," the chicken mascot admitted. "Even though we never noticed it at the time, he'd become such a familiar presence that his eventual, um, replacement, made us realize what was going on, more or less. It just… "

"Wasn't enough to save him," Mike finished the sentence; somehow, even these scattered little bits of knowledge about his posthumous mentor helped the night-guard feel better, as though a dull ache he'd grown used to was finally going away. "I get it."

"Can we… can we have those tapes, anyway?" Bonnie asked, timidly. "Please? I know it doesn't amount to much, but… I'd like to make my amends."

Mike regarded the two for a moment, before answering wholeheartedly: "Sure." And he _was_ sure, he realized to his own surprise, more so than he would have expected, as he got to his feet. "I'll go fetch them right now. You can use the old cassette player in the backroom."

Unfortunately, this wasn't to be – as he reached for the doorknob, what minimal lighting the hallways still had during shift-hours went dark with a _whoosh_.

"What the hell?" he wondered out loud, stopping dead in his tracks.

"Did you leave a camera running, or something?" the purple animatronic inquired.

"No way," the night-guard responded, "I always double-check everything before leaving the office. Power outage?"

"We have our own generator," the rabbit replied, getting up. "We'd have switched to it automatically if that happened."

"Maybe one of the fuses blew out?" Chica offered. "Those things are almost as old the building, I wouldn't be surprised if they failed for no reason."

"I don't think that's how fuses work," Bonnie argued. "Then again, I _have_ heard a lot of people complain about stuff like that, so maybe there's something to it."

"I'll go check," the guard volunteered, "it'll have to get fixed either way."

"Want one of us to come with?" the avian asked.

"Nah, I'm fine," the man answered. "You two can get those cassettes, if you wanna; they're in one of the drawers, just keep looking until you find them. Triple-check on my double-check while you're at it, make sure there's no human error involved after all."

"Sure thing," the two siblings replied in near-perfect unison, nodding.

[ooo]

Using the pen-sized torch he always kept in his pocket, Mike made his way through the jet-black murk and towards Parts'n Service, where the fuse box was to be found. As always, the darkened halls of the haunted restaurant seemed filled with nameless fears and unfulfilled omens, watching eyes and shapes that dissipated as soon as light touched them; sometimes, when he sat alone in the security office, he even thought he could make out whispered words coming from within the brick walls, and he'd never dared ask if Goldy was doing that in case she denied it. Truth be told, as the night-guard approached the rusty steel door to his destination, he felt sure that a voice could be heard from within. Only… the more he listened, not yet daring to enter, the more he realized this was no delusion nor flight of fancy. What he heard was as real, as it was unexpected.

[ooo]

"It's been a while, I know. And I'm sorry about that."

Foxy knelt by the first row of costumes in the backroom, speaking softly; he vaguely remembered, from the early childhood years of a life he no longer had, his mother talking like this to the tombstone of some departed relative or another. Not praying, not crying, just… talking, sharing news, as if the dead were merely a bit hard of hearing.

"Things have been quiet, as of late. Sort of… normal. Although I suppose that actually makes it strange, because things are never usually this normal. Anyway..."

He paused for a moment, and sighed. It felt weird, doing this, but it also made him feel a lot better, even if he couldn't explain why if asked. He could open up to these make-shift tombstones in a way that he'd never thought possible, he'd admit to them things he couldn't even admit to himself.

"It's just, I've been thinking a lot, as of late. I'm messed up in all sorts of ways, and I've been this way since long before I had any sort of excuse for it. I know that. But, for the first time in, well, forever, I… I actually want to fix it. I want to change, for the better. And I don't know where to start, but I'm tired of being this, this _mess_. I'm tired of being a monster, of always having to doubt myself and always making things worse for everyone." His voice, synthetic and gruff, cracked a little. "I know I'll never be able to take back what I've done, to you, and to everyone else that I might've hurt; and I'm so, so sorry about it. I never meant for this to happen – not to you, anyway. But I can't take it back. So, I thought…" He stopped, and took a deep, rattling breath, collecting himself. "You all had a story, and it ended with me. The least I can do, is make sure that my own story isn't as ugly as it has been, so far." He got up, dusting himself off with his good hand. "I… don't really know what else to say. Like I said, there isn't much happening. I'll, uh, see you soon, I suppose. Just… stay safe."

He left the room at speed, lost in thought, and nearly barrelled into Mike as he headed back for the Cove.

"Sorry," the fox apologized, "didn't see you there." Then, as the thought struck him: "Wait… how long have you been standing there?"

"I just got here," Mike lied, "from the kitchen. I just wanted to check the fuse box, because the lights had gone off."

"They're on now," Foxy answered suspiciously, letting just a tiny hint of a growl come into his voice.

"Well… yeah," the man admitted, awkwardly. "I noticed."

"Kinda' convenient, isn't it?" the red mascot pressed.

"Look," Mike replied, putting his hands in the air as a sign of peace, "just ask Bonnie. Or Chica. I wasn't spying on you, or whatever it is that you think I was doing." That was sort of true, but it didn't change how guilty he felt having overheard what he was pretty sure had been a _very_ private confession.

"...okay, then," the fox relented. "I didn't notice anything going wrong, but if that's the case you might wanna give the wiring a once-over anyway."

"That was the plan, yeah." Then, as he went by: "Hey, uh… you okay, Foxy?"

"I'm fine," the bot answered, after a pause. It was the first time in a very long while that he'd said that, and actually meant it.

[ooo]

Even after a thorough investigation, Mike couldn't find anything wrong with the fuses, or the lights, or anything for that matter, and it bothered the night-guard greatly. Still, as the night went on and the incident did not repeat itself, he eventually all but forgot about it.

His fears were renewed when, at the end of his shift, right on the restaurant's doorstep, he found a golden, purple-hatted plush teddybear. 

_**A/N: So here we have it, a bit of a time-skip - nothing major though, only two weeks and a couple of days, enough for Mike to get to know the rest of the crew a bit better. I'm a little late with this chapter (as usual), but then again it's quite larger that I was initially expecting so, uh, here's to hoping that'll make up for it. There's not much else that I can think of to say here, but I hope you've enjoyed, and stay tuned for more! Um. Eventually.**_

_**Too quiet.**_


End file.
